


The Taming of the DI

by Increasing_Paranoia



Series: The Atypical Omega [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 13:36:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17829560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Increasing_Paranoia/pseuds/Increasing_Paranoia
Summary: “You came after me,” he reminds the younger man, just to be extra ornery. This time he hears a huff of laughter.“Indeed I did,” Mycroft agrees.“Regretting it?” he asks, rolling his head to look in the other man’s direction.“Never.”“I’ll have to try harder then.”





	The Taming of the DI

To say that Gregory Lestrade is an ordinary Omega would be to compare a rhinoceros to a unicorn. Sure, the rhino has four legs, a tail and a horn but it is nowhere near the majestic beauty of a unicorn. So yes, Gregory Lestrade is a human male with all the markers of an Omega with one interesting quirk. He refuses to submit. Any Alpha that had dared try and use their power to push him into headspace very quickly found out that the man has an uncanny ability to shake off any and all pushes. And he is very quick to bloody the nose of any Alpha that tried.

Such it has always been. Lestrade first presented as an Omega when he was thirteen years old. A bit of a late bloomer, and it had caused a never-ending succession of teasing from his classmates at the time. It had ended but two days later when, in a bit of stupid showmanship, one young Alpha decided he was going to claim Greg Lestrade as ‘his’ and tried to bite the teen. It had taken two teachers to drag the young Omega off the Alpha’s unconscious form and it was only the testimony of his classmates – yes, the Alpha had tried to _bite_ the Omega, so really it was his _own_ fault and no it’s not the school’s fault that you haven’t had a chat with your son about appropriate behaviors, maybe you should do that before he tries to bite a less aggressive Omega, yes? - that kept Lestrade from being kicked out of school. By the time he graduated high school he had broken the nose of every Alpha in the district and several more besides.

It’s his mother who trains him to be strong. By the time Greg has graduated there are several laws in effect to make life much more bearable for Omegas. He’s able to apply for the police force, something he never would have been able to do a mere five years earlier and it’s his right to refuse mating, and therefore bonding, with any Alpha that approaches him. His mother hadn’t had that option. She’d been bitter about it, when it first occurred. There had been things she had wanted to do, plans she had never been able to complete when she had been bonded at nineteen. She had made her peace with most of it by the time her beloved son was born, but she had seen how the tide was changing. Knew what opportunities her son would have, and she had taught him accordingly. _Be your own man, Gregory,_ she whispered to him. _Be the man you want to be. If an Alpha tries to change you then_ _they’re_ _not the right Alpha for you._ He had lived by these words and at this point in his life knew that there was no Alpha for him. He was too old, too insubordinate and refused to leave his job to be some entitled arsehole’s breeder. Such was life before Sherlock Holmes.

Before Sherlock Holmes (BSH) Gregory Lestrade had worked his way up the chain of Scotland Yard. He was smart as a whip, refused to kowtow to superiors (much less Alphas) and was good with witnesses. His close rate was above average, and he had the respect of his team despite his second-in-command being an Alpha herself. Donovan had only made the mistake of trying to push him once. Lestrade had pinned her over a desk with her hands cuffed behind her back. _Do it again, to anyone here,_ he had growled, _and it’s gonna be a permanent mark on your record, you hear?_ She had bucked and snarled, trying to fight him off but Lestrade had had years of practice with Alphas much stronger than her and he had merely waited her out, the other officers huddled into groups on the outskirts of the room, silently betting on who would come out on top. Finally Donovan shuddered and relaxed her body. A quiet ‘yes, sir’, answered Lestrade’s earlier question and he un-cuffed the Sergeant, moving away while keeping a sharp eye. Wouldn’t do to get blindsided by a sharp right hook. There was no worry. Donovan returned to her desk and Lestrade strolled to his office, barking at the others to get back to work. An uneasy partnership had settled in the wake. Lestrade had earned Donovan’s grudging respect. She had been looking to fast-track her own career by embarrassing Lestrade. Unfortunately, the incident had backfired on her and she had to endure the teasing from her coworkers. Lestrade shut it down after a day or two, asking if any of them would like to try and give him a push. His words had been calm but a hint of steel came through, and everyone quickly turned back to their work. Donovan brought him in coffee the next day and the uneasy partnership settled into tentative comradery. It blossomed over the difficulty of their positions – with Lestrade being an Omega in a typically Alpha position and Donovan being a female in a typically male position. After that, it had been a peaceful two years of work. And then Sherlock appeared on the scenes.

Lestrade feels the push before he even sees the Alpha and it momentarily blindsides him. Dear _God_ but it was the strongest push he’d ever felt and for a moment he’s woozy. He shakes it off while gritting his teeth and he stands up slowly, not keen on falling over and looking like a fool in front of his squad. It’s so hard to earn respect as an Omega and yet so ridiculously simple to lose it.

“Anderson, what have you got?” he asks, as he turns toward the forensic scientist. The male Beta was a newer addition to Scotland Yard and while Lestrade isn’t fond of him – he wasn’t blind to the fact that he was cheating on his bondmate with Lestrade’s sergeant – the man isn’t completely incompetent. The man shakes his head, apparently feeling the effects of the push as well. “Anderson!” Greg snaps.

“Uh, dead around two hours. Cause of death looks to be dehydration from the sauna.”

“ _Wrong_ ,” a voice interrupts. Anderson’s eyes narrow as he looks over the DI’s shoulder. Greg sighs, wondering which of his staff he needs to yell at for this latest incompetence. Grabbing at the remaining threads of his patience, the DI turns to face the stranger. The man is tall and thin with pale skin and dark hair. His eyes are a pale shade of icy blue though they were glossy from inebriation. _Drugs,_ Lestrade realizes and he hisses out a breath at the realization that a _druggie_ is crashing his _crime scene._ “It’s clear the woman died of hypothermia. Just take a look at the slight discoloration of her skin, especially at the tips of her fingers and around her lips. Obviously, this means she was murdered elsewhere before being moved here by her killer in an effort to cover their tracks..”

“And how would you know that?” Anderson screeches at the kid. The man towering over them couldn’t be much older than mid-20s, maybe late-20s if he had good genes.

“Anderson, shut up,” Lestrade orders. “And you,” he continues, pointing at the kid, “you’re contaminating my crime scene. Who let you past?”

“I’m not contaminating anything,” the man argues. “I’m solving your crime for you since you are _clearly_ incompetent. _**Let me look**_ _._ ” Lestrade feels the push and gives the man a tight smile, squaring off against him.

“No.” he replies. The man’s brow furrows and he takes a step closer to the DI.

“ _ **Let me look.”**_ He repeats. The push is stronger this time and Lestrade sees movement from the corner of his eye. Anderson has stepped out of the way, gesturing for the younger man to pass but Lestrade blocks him.

“I said no. Push me one more time and...”

“ _ **LET ME LOOK!**_ ” Lestrade is never one hundred percent certain what takes place after that and the officers on the scene are unreliable as they were all feeling the effects of the push. The next thing he recalls is that the lanky druggie is pinned to the ground with the DI’s knee in his back while Lestrade snaps the cuffs around his wrists.

“Right, you’re coming with me,” Lestrade snarls as he hoists the man to his feet. “Donovan, finish processing the scene and then report in. I’m taking this arsehole to the tanks to sober up.” He drags the man to the vehicle, shoving him into the backseat. The man looks at him in shock and Lestrade pauses for a moment, choking back a laugh. “I told you not to push me.” He slams the door shut before the kid can say anything and the drive back to Scotland Yard is relatively quiet after that.

He shoves the kid in a holding tank, giving the guards on watch a warning. The last thing he needs is for this druggie to push the officers on watch and disappear into the night. Lestrade doesn’t believe he has anything to do with the murder but he does want to talk to him, figure out what he knows and see what the hell he’s doing wasting away his life on drugs. He’ll talk to him once he’s sober, he decides before returning to his office and the never-ending pile of paperwork. He’s just caught up and is ready to reward himself with a well-deserved sandwich from his favorite cafe when his phone rings.

“Lestrade,” he greets. He listens to the voice at the other end, giving a couple of ‘uh-huhs’ before he asks, “You’re certain?” He sighs heavily at the indignant reply. “Alright, I understand.” The phone is barely back in the cradle before Lestrade slams his head onto his desk and lets out a groan.

“I’ll just make a food run, shall I, sir?” Donovan calls as she drops a pile of files onto his desk. Lestrade turns his head to the side and peers up at her, trying to gauge whether she’s sincere or being her usual sarcastic self.

“You’re a godsend, Donovan,” he tells her, tuning out her response as she snags the keys to the cruiser from his coat pocket. He flips through the files, taking in the photos of the crime scene as well as any evidence collected. He stood with a groan, his joints protesting the stretch after sitting for so long but he ignores it, gathering up the files and striding down to the holding tanks. He half-expects the younger man to be out like a light but he isn’t. He’s curled on the bunk, staring at a wall and while Lestrade doubted he was completely sober, he had at least lost the glassy-eyed look he’d had at the crime scene.

“You’ve gotten the forensics report,” the man greets as the DI enters the cell. “You want to know how I knew she died of hypothermia. I’m not the murderer.”

“I want to know a lot of things,” the DI states. He almost tosses the files onto the bunk but stops himself, instead crossing his arms and keeping the files tucked close to his body. “Let’s start with your name.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man answers. “And you’re DI Lestrade, the Yard’s only Omega Detective Inspector. It was quite a sensation when you were promoted over other Alphas.”

“Alright then, Sherlock, why did you show up at my crime scene?” Greg continues, ignoring the younger man’s comments for the time being. Sherlock huffs, crossing his arms.

“I already told you, I showed up to solve the crime. It’s a puzzle, an _interesting_ one. It gives me something to focus on and keeps me from getting bored.”

“Yes, I can see what happens when you get bored,” Greg states wryly. “So why don’t you just join the force if you want to solve crimes? No,” he continues, changing his mind before Sherlock can answer. “Never mind. I know why.”

“I highly doubt that, Inspector.” Lestrade felt his lips twist.

“Oh, so you _aren’t_ either the youngest child or only child of a well-off family, then?” he challenges. “Used to getting what you want, when you want it, not having to follow any of the usual rules, or be held responsible for any follow-up?”

“Perhaps, Inspector,” Sherlock says slowly. “You aren’t a complete imbecile.” Silence settles among the two men for a moment before Sherlock gestures to the files. “Are those the crime scene photos? May I see them?”

“Are you going to get clean?” Lestrade asks, keeping the files just out of the younger man’s reach.

“Are you going to keep letting me solve crimes?” he challenges.

“Let’s see how you do with this one. Everything turns out well and I’ll let you look at some cold cases. Depending how you do with those and depending on how well you’re doing with sobriety...we’ll talk.”

* * *

Lestrade watches as Sherlock and his new ‘colleague’ walk away from the crime scene and he struggles not to laugh. He had wondered, a few days ago, just how the poor doctor had wound up with the consulting detective, but he sees now that they will be good for each other. Sherlock will never quit leaving people behind when he chases after a thread, but the good doctor certainly bullies the Alpha into at least keeping him in the loop. And John is good enough to pass all pertinent information on to Lestrade. The DI shakes his head but he’s glad to find another Omega like himself and decides not to pursue the cabbie’s killer. He’d hate to see the doctor in jail.

Turning back to his new crime scene, Lestrade is suddenly aware of a heavy gaze falling on him and he bites back a growl. He sweeps his eyes over the scene and settles on the man who was speaking to Sherlock earlier. The man is taller than the DI – about Sherlock’s height – with eyes that seem to cut right through a person. _A family member_ , Lestrade decides. And then, _good lord there’s more than one of them._ He recalls his early days of associating with Sherlock. The man had warned him about an over-protective brother and the possibility of Lestrade being picked up for an interview. It hadn’t happened, and the DI had put it out of his mind. Yet here he was, loitering around his crime scene, staring at the DI. Right, he decides, time to grab the bull by the horns.

“Is this a Holmes’ habit?” he asks, crossing over to the other man. Something flits across the man’s face, surprise, maybe, before a calm mask takes over. “Loitering around crime scenes?” Lestrade continues when the man says nothing.

“I assure you, this is usually my younger brother’s domain,” the man finally answers. “You must be Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“You have me at a disadvantage. Sherlock must have given you my name but I’m afraid he’s only ever called you a meddling busybody in my presence.”

“I’m sure he’s called me much worse,” the man returns with a wry grin. Lestrade grins at that but neither confirms nor denies it. “Mycroft Holmes,” he introduces, holding out a hand. Lestrade gives it a quick shake.

“Nice to finally meet you. Well, I won’t hold you up. Need to sort out this lot anyway.” He gestures over his shoulder where his officers are mingling, awaiting further instruction from either the DI or his Sergeant. “I swear some days this lot would forget to breathe if we didn’t order it,” he sighs as he turns away. He gasps, a quick intake of breath, and stills as heat unfurls in his lower belly while his head begins to feel fuzzy, indicating the start of a push. He shakes it off, glancing over his shoulder. The elder Holmes is giving him a speculative look and this time, Lestrade doesn’t even try to stop the growl in his throat. “ _Don’t.”_ he snarls. He’s not sure what he expects. The Alpha to back off? The look of surprise that Sherlock had given him two years ago? He’s not expecting the slow, satisfied smile that crosses Mycroft’s face.

“Until next time, Inspector,” Mycroft tells him with a barely-there bow. The DI watches him leave, wondering what the hell just happened.

It’s a late night by the time everything is wrapped up and Lestrade has put everything related to Mycroft Holmes out of his mind. His alarm goes off at six the next morning and he drags himself into the office, ready to process all the paperwork and wondering how he can word things so that his fellow inspectors don’t go sniffing around John Watson. He’s got a cup of crap coffee in hand and he’s blinking blearily as he pushes his office door open. Then he blinks again. And one more time for good measure.

His desk _should_ by all rights be covered in paperwork related to the cabbie. Lestrade has never been good at keeping up with it while on a case, usually taking the next two to five days post-case to make sure everything is filed appropriately. This case generated more paperwork than most (as Sherlock always makes things more complicated in one regard while simplifying things in another) and Lestrade was more than prepared to find his desk buried under three inches of dead trees. Instead, there is a neat pile of forms awaiting his review and, he supposes, his signature.

He crosses his office in three steps and stares at the pile, even going so far as to poke it suspiciously. He knows for sure that Sherlock hasn’t done this, even with the good doctor’s influence and John himself wouldn’t have known how to fill these forms out. Donovan had snuck out of the office even earlier than Lestrade and a quick look out his window shows she’s not at her desk yet, so she sure as hell hasn’t done this. So who-

His thoughts are interrupted by a knock at his door. Before he can answer, a man in a suit has stepped through, placed a fresh cup of coffee and pastry from his favorite shop onto his desk, taken the crap coffee out of his hand and disappeared. Ah. Mycroft then. His phone is in his hand before he even has a moment to think about it and he waits impatiently for Sherlock to pick up.

“Right, so how much influence did you say your brother had?”

It’s lunch by the time Lestrade manages to get out of the office and he finds himself at 221B Baker Street with a lot of questions. He doubts Sherlock will answer many of them, but he’ll take what he can get.

“Hang on, why did I get kidnapped immediately when you’ve been working with Lestrade for two years?” John asks irritably. He passes a cup of tea to Lestrade before hunkering down in his chair. “We’re both Omegas and both work with you.”

“But Lestrade doesn’t live with me,” Sherlock answers with a roll of his eyes. “What’s more, I can’t push him.” John blinks, giving the inspector another once over as if viewing the man with new eyes. Lestrade simply smirks at the memory of what happened the first and only time Sherlock had tried. “Mycroft must have taken that to mean that Lestrade is an Alpha. He has since been disabused of that idea after meeting our Detective Inspector last night and it has piqued his interest.” He gives Lestrade a critical once over. “He tried to push you.” Lestrade flushes at the memory.

“Yeah. My response may have been the same as when you tried it,” he confesses, hiding his face behind the tea cup. “At least he was smart enough to stop the first time I warned him,” he adds, shooting the younger man a _look_. Sherlock smirks and the inspector heaves a put-upon sigh. “I walked into the office today figuring I’d be spending the next three days catching up on all the paperwork from this cabbie case. The paperwork was completed, just needs my signature. And while I was trying to wrap my head around _that_ , some bloke in a posh suit walked into my office with a fresh cup of coffee and a pastry, setting them on my desk before disappearing.”

“Congratulations Lestrade. You’re being courted by the British Government.” The consulting detective tells him blandly. The officer groans, ignoring the look of amusement on the younger men’s faces.

Lestrade handles the situation the way he typically handles things he’s unsure about. He ignores it. He goes about his days solving crimes and goes home at night to crash into bed. At first he thinks Mycroft has changed his mind and it gives him an odd sense of relief and disappointment at the same time. Then his detective skills kick in and he realizes that Mycroft has just been subtle. It’s tiny declarations meant to provide minor comforts throughout the day – better coffee in the break-room, food magically appearing when he’s caught up in the case, and, on a more personal level, his wardrobe and sheets slowly but consistently being replaced by better, more comfortable higher end products. He feels like he should, at the very least, be upset about this utter violation of his privacy but, he decides as he spreads out across the high-end sheets, he really can’t be arsed when he’s this comfortable.

In the rare time off that he gets, Lestrade wonders what, exactly, Mycroft wants from him. It’s clear that the Alpha is courting him and Greg feels like he should, perhaps, put an end to it. But that would require a face-to-face meeting with the older Holmes and it’s not like Greg knows how to get a hold of the enigmatic man. As it turns out, Mycroft decides to get a hold of him. Literally.

It’s on one of those aforementioned rare days off and Lestrade is on his way back from the shops when a sleek, nondescript black vehicle pulls up to the curb. One of the back-passenger doors swings open and a woman steps out. Lestrade vaguely recalls seeing her the night he met Mycroft and she had been just as attached to her Blackberry that night as she was now.

“Inspector,” she greets as he approaches, her eyes still glued to the screen. “Get in, please.” Her tone suggests that it isn’t so much as a request as an order and Lestrade feels himself bristle.

“I’ll walk, thanks,” he tells her, not even breaking his stride. He thinks he hears an annoyed sigh and he has to stop himself from grinning like a fool. Perhaps he’s behaving a little childishly, but Greg’s heard enough stories from John about his ‘kidnappings’ - especially when on the way home with groceries – and he feels like being a little contrary. He hears an engine turn over and notes, somewhat bemusedly, that the car is now keeping pace with him, slowly inching along the street. He’s cut off again at the next intersection, a second car materializing as if from nowhere. This time when the door swings open, Mycroft himself is there, primly sitting on the leather seats.

“Gregory,” he greets amiably, though the older man catches the edges of his mouth twitching in amusement. Somehow he doubts anyone other than Sherlock has blatantly ignored a summons from Mycroft Holmes.

“If my milk goes off, not even your brother will be able to solve your disappearance,” Greg warns as he clambers into the back of the car. He supposes he should be a little more respectful. Mycroft is, after all, a rather powerful Alpha but it’s not like there’s anyone for Mycroft to complain to. His parents are already gone and getting Greg fired from the Yard would be more detrimental to Sherlock than anything.

“I have no doubt my brother would be more interested in assisting you than bringing you to justice,” Mycroft replies, amusement clearly tinging his voice. Greg takes another moment to settle his groceries before looking at the Alpha. Mycroft’s gaze is already on him and it’s just as heavy now as it was when they first met. Lestrade ignores it.

“Why am I here?” he asks, suddenly tired.

“My dear Gregory, I _know_ you are not stupid.”

“Alright, let me rephrase that: why _me?_ ” he clarifies. “You’re a strong Alpha and if you’re even half as powerful within the government as Sherlock indicates then you could have any Omega you wanted. Why pick someone who is known for not only turning down Alphas but getting in fisticuffs with them?”

“Would you believe me if I told you that I was in a very similar situation to yourself? When I first started in my position it became evident that should I ever take an Omega, they would need to be strong, not just an average house Omega. I tried to find someone a few times but the relationships ultimately failed. They were unable to stand up to Sherlock or, if they could, grew jealous of the amount of time I require to keep him safe. If not that, then they could not understand the demands of my job. Eventually I told myself I would not try again. Sherlock mentioned you and at first, his statements led me to believe you were an Alpha. Not only had you withstood his push, you took him down in a fight. When I met you at the crime scene I realized my mistake.”

“You tried to push me.” Greg recalls. “Why?”

“To make certain.” At Greg’s impatient huff, Mycroft continues. “You use suppressants. Understandable, seeing as how you wouldn’t want to miss work several times a year for a heat, especially as you refuse to take an Alpha. The suppressants also help mask your scent. When I saw you that night I was not entirely certain that I had caught the right scent or if I was mistaking it for something else. I pushed you to see how you reacted.”

“And I told you to knock it off,” the inspector reminds him. Mycroft gives the man across from him a slow smile and Lestrade instinctively tamps down on the curl of warmth in his belly. This one he cannot blame on a push.

“You did,” he agrees. “But my interest was already piqued. And you’re clearly interested in some regard or you would have figured out how to contact me by now. Even if it was only to shout abuse until I left you alone.” Lestrade feels himself flush at the words. “Yet you have not done so. And while you have not outright accepted my gifts, neither have you rejected them.”

“Yeah, well,” Lestrade sighs and looks out the window. He’s not sure why he’s letting Mycroft continue with his courting, doesn’t think he could explain it to himself if his life depended on it.

“Ah, we’re here,” Mycroft announces and Lestrade belatedly realizes that the car has pulled up outside of his building. “Good afternoon, Gregory.” Lestrade gathers his groceries and is out of the car within moments but he still pauses on the sidewalk, watching as the car slips into traffic and disappears. He’s not entirely sure what just happened but he’s fairly certain he somehow gave Mycroft permission to continue meddling with his life. He’s not sure whether he should be pleased or horrified. As he makes his way up to his flat he settles on some vacillating fusion of the two.

Life continues on for the DI, and he loses himself in his cases, chasing after Sherlock on the cases he deems ‘interesting’ enough. For the most part Mycroft stays in the background, at least until their cases collide and Lestrade finds himself off a case that apparently involves MI6. He’s a little irritated about it but grudgingly understands it and he turns back to one of the other cases he’s got on backlog. At least until Sherlock decides to detonate a bomb. He rushes to the scene, helping pull the lanky idiot and the ex-soldier out of the pool. He’s getting them bundled in the shock blankets when Mycroft bursts through the doors with something akin to panic on his face and that just won’t do.

“Over here!” he calls, motioning for the man to join him and his underlings part to let the man through. Mycroft’s emotions are back under control by the time he stands next to the detective inspector but they won’t have much time to themselves before the medics remove Sherlock and John from the scene so time is of the utmost essence here. “Out with it,” he orders.

“Moriarty,” John coughs. “Behind the kidnappings. Nabbed me off the streets. Snipers,” he adds as an afterthought and Lestrade curses. He leaves Mycroft to get the rest of the information from the pair, giving his staff warning about the potential for confrontation. They’ve already got a partly demolished pool on their hands, he doesn’t want to lose any officers. Once everything is situated he throws a glance backwards and is unsurprised to find that Sherlock and John have disappeared. He’s a little disappointed to find that Mycroft has gone as well but he sticks to his status quo of ignoring that emotion. He can at least catch up with Sherlock and John at the A&E. As soon as they finish picking their way through all this rubble. Lestrade sighs. It’s going to be a long night.

He drags himself to the A&E the next morning, working on barely 2 hours of sleep. He’s managed a change of clothes but didn’t bother with a shower and he just knows he’s still got bits of debris in his hair. He can’t find it within himself to care. Far too often throughout the night he felt himself remembering the expression on Mycroft’s face as he rushed into the pool, how it felt to see Mycroft acting _human_ and the results have been devastating to Lestrade’s self-control. He can admit that he’s attracted to Mycroft but last night has added another level to that attraction and it is really going to be a problem if Lestrade wants to maintain his life sans Alpha. Still, he thinks he can make it. Silently he admits to himself that he’s probably already fucked. He puts the thought on hold as a nurse bursts out of the room, crying.

“Calm thyself, Satan,” Lestrade says as he enters the room. Sherlock is propped in bed, sulking while John tears him a new one. There are some rather creative curses that even Lestrade hasn’t heard before and he silently files them away to use at a future date.

“Lestrade, get me out of here,” Sherlock...well, it sounds more like begging than ordering.

“Good morning, Sherlock, I’m fine, thanks for asking. Cup of coffee would be lovely and then we can take your statement, yeah?” Greg replies, tossing his paperwork onto one of the bedside tables. Sherlock growls but a glare from John shuts him up.

“Moriarty?” the doctor asks. Lestrade heaves a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping under the weight of last night.

“No bodies. He and his snipers must of got out before we got there.”

“Damn.”

Lestrade slumps into one of the free chairs, telling himself that he’s only going to sit down for a minute or two before grabbing coffee and getting on with the statements. He’s got no doubt that Sherlock will manage to get himself free of the hospital before the end of the day and he’d rather not chase the man down later if he’s got a captive audience now.

“You really should take better care of yourself, Lestrade. Mycroft will be most displeased to see you in such a state.” The sound of Sherlock’s voice permeates whatever half-doze Lestrade had going on and he pulls himself up.

“M’fine,” he mutters, dragging the table over to where he can easily write on top of it. “And I don’t care whether your brother’s pleased with me or not; he’s not my Alpha.” He ignores Sherlock’s muttered ‘not yet, anyway’ and begins taking John’s statement. The doctor glances from Sherlock to Greg, clearly wanting to ask questions but is kind enough to forego them for now. He’s gotten down John’s statement and is halfway through Sherlock’s when the door opens and a disgustingly put-together Mycroft steps through.

“Gregory,” he greets. A critical eye sweeps over his form and Lestrade feels his jaw tighten when a small frown appears across the other man’s face. “I would have expected Scotland Yard to give you the night off after last night’s...events.” A _look_ is sent towards the younger Holmes and Greg sees the younger man bristle at whatever silent implications Mycroft managed to work into it.

“I wasn’t aware we had spare staff,” the DI shoots back. He can see Mycroft’s eyes narrow, see his mouth opening to further follow this line of thought but Greg is tired and he just wants to finish Sherlock’s statement and go drink an entire pot of coffee. Maybe two. “Let me finish this, yeah?” he asks, bulldozing over the man and turning back to the younger Holmes. “What happened after you got the vest off John?” He ignores Sherlock’s smirk. He ignores Mycroft hovering in the doorway. He can’t ignore Watson looking back and forth from Sherlock to Mycroft to Lestrade. It’s the look that gets him, makes him suddenly realize how few people have actually managed cut Mycroft off and get away with it. When he’s finished writing everything down he has Sherlock and John sign off on their statements and says his goodbyes, squeezing past Mycroft as the man still hasn’t vacated his spot in front of the door. He supposes it was too much like wishful thinking to believe Mycroft would just let him leave.

“Gregory, please allow me to give you a lift back to your apartment.”

“Thanks, but going to the office,” Lestrade tells him without even breaking his stride. Mycroft merely stares at him and Lestrade narrows his eyes, turning to face him once he exits the hospital. “If I find out that I’ve been given the rest of the day off, I’m going to be quite put out, Holmes.”

“Then allow me to give you a lift to the office,” Mycroft amends as a dark, non-descript car pulls to the curb. “Incidentally, when is the last time you took vacation?”

“Fuck if I know. You probably know better than I do,” Lestrade answers as he slides across the seat. He’s somehow not surprised to see Mycroft’s...secretary?...already in the vehicle.

“Language, Gregory.”

“Piss off, Mycroft.” He’s too tired to be reprimanded and he’s made it forty odd years with the same vocabulary, so Mycroft can kiss his arse if the man thinks Greg’s going to change it now. Greg’s slumped down in the seat, eyes closed so he can’t actually see Mycroft’s reaction but he’s pretty sure it involves pursed lips and a raised eyebrow. He can definitely hear the sigh and it makes him smile. “You came after me,” he reminds the younger man, just to be extra ornery. This time he hears a huff of laughter.

“Indeed I did,” Mycroft agrees.

“Regretting it?” he asks, rolling his head to look in the other man’s direction.

“Never.”

“I’ll have to try harder then,” he teases. He’s halfway to dozing again so he doesn’t hear Mycroft’s reply – if the man even bothered with one. A gentle shake of his shoulder brings him back to the land of the living and he rubs a crick out of his neck as he sits up. “Right, I’m off then,” he states, voice still rough from sleep. “Thanks for the ride. Have fun storming the castle.” He’s got the door shut before any response can come so he cannot verify whether Mycroft gets his reference or not. If not, hopefully Audrey – Andrea? He can’t recall her name – can fill him in. He gives himself another shake and then squares his shoulders as he enters the Yard. Time to jump back into the fray.

* * *

Lestrade sighs as the plane sets down on the landing strip. As it taxies to the gate, he switches his phone back on, grimacing as notifications begin pinging like crazy. As he watches the number of texts and voice messages climb higher, he wonders if it’s too late to head back to the Caribbean. The vacation had been a last-minute decision but Greg could feel the burn out and knew if he didn’t get time off he was liable to snap. He had, in a moment of weakness, confessed as much to Mycroft, who, per typical Holmesian fashion, had offered to coordinate the entire thing. Lestrade had sent him such a withering glare that the topic was not broached again, though Greg has no doubt Mycroft had at least meddled a _little bit_ – most likely in getting Greg’s vacation request approved. Now he was rested, relaxed and, after checking his emails, ready to leave again because apparently Sherlock was _bored_.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket, deciding to listen to his voice mails later and waits as the majority of the passengers disembark before moving from his seat. Once he snags his luggage he heads for the taxis, happy to be home despite the craziness he knows is waiting for him. Or, apparently, coming _to_ him. Anthea stands at the bottom of the escalator, patiently waiting for Lestrade to approach her.

“What is it this time?” he asks, following her as she turns on her heel and leads him to the waiting car.

“He has a request for you and it is, unfortunately, rather sensitive. Involving Sherlock.” She adds. Greg sighs but follows her into the car. Right back into the swing of things then. The DI sits back and lets the chaos wash over him. As much as he enjoyed his vacation, _this_ is what he lives for and he’s happy to be back. And while he’ll never admit it, he’s also really fucking excited to see Mycroft. But seeing the older Holmes will have to wait as he is apparently being sent to Dartmoor.

“What’s he done now?” he asks once they get themselves settled. Anthea actually deigns to put her Blackberry away, a sure sign of how far Greg’s come in the world.

“He’s infiltrated Baskerville, a Ministry of Defense research base. He stole Mycroft’s badge to do so. We’re not entirely sure what led him to Dartmoor, and therefore Baskerville, but it is imperative that he be stopped.”

“Because he listens so well,” Greg snorts as he crosses his arms. “If you want someone he’ll listen to, why not send John?” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows what Anthea is going to tell him.

“Dr. Watson is with him.”

“Of course he is.” Greg lets his head drop back onto the headrest. “Are you sure we need to go to Dartmoor? I hear Madrid is lovely this time of year.” He doesn’t bother lifting his head, but he can still practically _hear_ Anthea’s smile.

“Perhaps next time, Detective Inspector.”

The rest of the ride is relatively quiet.

He’s barely managed to get himself settled at the pub before Sherlock comes barging in with John trailing behind him. He’s not surprised that Sherlock is less than happy to see him. After all, if the DI is there then it’s not an obvious leap to figure out that Mycroft is on to his little scheme. It doesn’t stop Lestrade from yanking on the consulting detective’s chain.

“Oh, nice to see you to,” he quips. “I’m on _holiday_ would you believe?” And no, quite obviously Sherlock _doesn’t_ believe and is less than pleased with Lestrade’s levity. And yeah, okay, it stings a bit, finding out that Sherlock couldn’t even be arsed to find out his first name but what else could one expect from the self-proclaimed sociopath? But what really irritates him more than anything is that Sherlock thinks of him as his _handler_ of all things, that all Mycroft has to do is snap his fingers and Greg will just do his bidding.

“Look, I’m not your handler,” he tells the other man. “And you know _damn well_ that I don’t just do what your brother tells me.” Something shifts on the other man’s face, but he doesn’t get the opportunity to find out what it is because John jumps in with a receipt he recovered from the restaurant and yes, it is a little peculiar that a _vegetarian_ restaurant has ordered so much _meat._

By the time Lestrade’s interview is over, he is more than done with humanity for the day. Between learning that Sherlock can’t be arsed to learn his name and knowing that two people had knowingly kept a dog out on the moor, nearly driving a man out of his mind… He leaves the restaurant, already planning on packing and heading back to London tonight. It’s John that catches up to him, trying to convince the detective that Sherlock was secretly pleased that Lestrade had arrived. The man in question is not really sure if it’s true, but he appreciates John’s attempt at cheering him up anyway.

He has a word with the local force, as he promised, before heading back to the inn and packing his belongings. He’s just rented a taxi and is heading out of town when he gets the call from Sherlock. An order to meet them at the Hollow. And bring his gun. He lets out a string of expletives, no doubt shocking his driver before ordering the poor bloke to turn around. He storms back in to the inn and throws his luggage on the bed, snapping the case open and pulling his gun and holster from the bottom of the case. A quick stop at the desk and he’s got directions to the place in question, though Sherlock and John have beaten him there. There’s a kid there, no more than 20s or 30s, clearly distraught, though John manages to snag the gun away. Lestrade hangs back, listening to Sherlock talk the younger man through everything. There’s an uncomfortable clenching in his gut as he listens to the taller man talk. He’s been a copper for years, has seen the very best and the very worst that humanity has had to offer but it doesn’t make it any easier to stomach. It’s only belatedly that he hears the growling.

As Sherlock was walking the man through the death of his father, explaining how he was being targeted to keep him from identifying his father’s killer, a grotesque monster had snuck up on them. He knows, logically, that this thing must be a dog, but he cannot reconcile the image of a dog with what is before him. The thing is monstrous, with glowing red eyes and Lestrade can’t help but wonder what the _bloody fuck_ is going on, because while someone might have been dosing the kid with hallucinogenics, Greg has just arrived in this bloody place. It’s Sherlock, of course, who figures things out, shouting about how the drug is in the fog, being dispensed as a spray. Lestrade takes what comfort he can in that, before the hound creeps closer, clearly stalking the group. Greg shoots, but with the fog and the chemicals burning at his eyes, his shots go wide. John has better luck, firing with the gun he took from the kid and the dog goes down. Now that the beast is still it is easy to see that it was just a rather large, black dog but their attention is soon arrested by the new man on the scene.

Lestrade’s not sure when he arrived, nor does he know who the man is. Clearly, it’s someone the other three men know, judging at how the kid’s swinging at the man. If he’s connected with the hallucinogenic, then Greg would not be surprised to find he’s a scientist from Baskerville. He’ll have John fill him in on the particulars later, right after they get the man back in custody for a twenty-year-old murder. Greg curses under his breath, taking off after the man as he makes a run for it and _really,_ why must the suspect always _run?_ They catch up to him at the edge of the Hollow, but the man’s already over the fence and running through the mine field. No. Scratch that, he’s dead. Greg heaves a sigh and collapses against the tree. Whatever eagerness he had to jump back into work is long gone. He hasn’t even been back in the UK for more than 24 hours and he’s been insulted, drugged and nearly blown up. He is _done_ with the Holmes’.

* * *

Lestrade stands in front of the grave, hands shoved into his pockets and clenched into fists. He’d received word from the review board that they had wrapped up their investigation. No misconduct was found on any of the cases Sherlock had assisted with and Lestrade could return to work. He had told the higher ups _exactly_ where they could stick it. Lestrade might have been vindicated but that didn’t bring the consulting detective back. He was still dead, put in the ground with the help of his co-workers, the people he _should_ have been able to trust. And it would be a cold day in hell before Lestrade ever helped them with _anything_ ever again. He was interrupted from his bitterness by the ringing of his phone.

“Lestrade,” he answers, biting back the ‘DI’ that used to go before it.

“Just saw the news,” John says by way of greeting. “How’d they take it?”

“Anderson wasn’t even there – probably afraid of getting another shiner,” Greg tells him, a wry grin twisting his lips. “Can’t say he was wrong to be a bit terrified on that account.” Lestrade had slugged him _hard_ when everything first went down. The forensic scientist had walked around with bruising for a month and Lestrade would be lying if he said he hadn’t gotten a sick sort of satisfaction every time he saw the man after that. He hears John’s huff of dry laughter in the background and knows the man is thinking of the same memory. “Sally looked pale as a ghost. With the witnesses that have come forward, and the whole ‘I believe in Sherlock Holmes’ movement going, she’s finding herself with less and less support. I think she was hoping they’d at least find _something_ to support her and Anderson’s claims. When they came back with nothing...well, she’s finding herself more ostracized. Dimmock tells me that she and Anderson are finding themselves to be the center of some rather unwelcome attention these days. Can’t say I’m sorry to hear it,” he confesses.

“Good.” There is a finality in the word and Lestrade winces a little at it. He knows where John is coming from, but Lestrade also understands where Sally and Anderson were coming from as well. He doesn’t condone what they did, not by a long shot, hates it, in fact, that they went around his back like sneaks. But there is no understanding or pity in John’s voice and for the first time since he’s met John Watson, Lestrade wonders if he’s seeing the soldier side of him, the side with no pity for the enemy. “Heard they offered you your job back.”

“Yeah, I declined,” he answers, dragging his attention back to the conversation. “Not about to give my time over to a bunch of people who can’t trust me, as their subordinate or as their superior officer.”

“You turned them down?” John asks, surprise evident even over the phone.

“Not in so many words. ...I might have told them where they could stick it.” Greg smiles as he hears John’s laughter. It’s been rare, these past several months. While Sherlock’s death had hit the DI hard, it had all but shattered the doctor. Greg had kept an eye on the man – it wasn’t like he didn’t have the time with his suspension – had bullied him into eating, bathing, getting out of the apartment. Under Greg’s guidance, John had gotten his job back at the clinic and now, almost a year later, he was seeing one of the nurses there – Mary. Greg had met her, a time or two, and was rather fond of the spunky woman. He thinks Sherlock would like her, too. The thought brings a small pang of sadness, though nowhere near the tidal wave of grief it would have once brought.

“You should take the job, Greg.” The words give the older man a bit of a pause. If he’s being completely honest, that really isn’t what he would have expected John to say. “I know you’re properly pissed about what happened, trust me, I do. But you’re a good detective and...well, the Yard needs more people like you. If you’re there and helping to train new detectives, maybe it will keep something like this from happening again. But make them beg for you, first,” John adds, dark humor creeping into his tone. Greg laughs.

* * *

It’s his first day back on the force with a larger team, a bigger office and a ridiculously large pay raise and the DI is more than a little irritated. He’s wasted half his morning getting his arsed kissed by the higher-ups and his desk is already buried under the paperwork of forms that he needs to fill out to be considered an employee of New Scotland Yard once again. God lord but he’d forgotten about the sheer tedium of bureaucracy when he’d first agreed to take his job back. Still, he’d made them beg for a month before he finally agreed, and it hadn’t been the higher ups that finally made him cave. It had been the never-ending parade of other DIs that had finally convinced him to come back.

Dimmock, the little weasel, had been the first to show up at his flat. The DI had been quite vocal about his dislike of Sherlock after meeting him on the banker case. He had been more than gleeful when he heard that Lestrade’s cases were under review, so the former DI was more than a little surprised to find the younger man knocking on his door a few days after he’d been cleared.

“I heard about what happened.”

“Yeah? What’s it to you?” he asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest, though he steps aside to let him in. He leads him back to the kitchen where his coffee is percolating and pours them both a mug before sliding into a seat.

“I wanted to apologize. Look,” Dimmock continues when Greg merely raises an eyebrow at him. “I know I wasn’t fond of Sherlock, but I can’t deny the man was brilliant. It used to...piss me off how he just ran around spitting out his deductions yet refuse to actually join the force. He could have done so much if he just would have...” The younger man sighs and shakes his head. “Anyway, like I said. So, when Donovan and Anderson accused him it was easy to let my dislike of him cloud my judgment and believe them. I thought he was finally getting what he deserved after years of treating the police force like a bunch of twats, though I _was_ sorry that you were getting taken down with him. You’re a good detective, Lestrade. You had one of the highest solve ratings even before you were working with Sherlock and I think a lot of them, even Donovan and Anderson, forgot that when everything blew up. But with everything that’s been discovered since...well.” He pauses, hands fiddling with his mug before he finally raises it and takes a sip. “You were right. As always. I just wanted to come by and say that. And I hope you’ll reconsider your decision about returning to the Yard.”

Carter and Hopkins follow shortly thereafter and then it seems like every DI that Greg has ever _heard_ of stops by his flat. When New Scotland Yard calls the next day, Lestrade agrees to meet with them. And when he goes in to discuss things, he agrees to take his job back.

It’s not that he’s _regretting_ it. No. He’s just rediscovering his extreme _loathing_ of paperwork. He’s about halfway through the pile when there is a light tap at his door. He doesn’t even look up as he shouts at the person to enter. He hears the door open and then close again, but it seems that whoever has entered his office is intent on hanging around the door itself, so he drags his eyes up and away from the tiny, evil print on the paperwork to turn and look at…

“Donovan,” he states, voice cooling several degrees.

“DI Lestrade,” she greets, all professional courtesy. “They’ve made me your Sergeant,” she continues when it’s clear that Lestrade has nothing further to say. “Is that...” she trails off but Lestrade hears the rest of her question. _Is that alright? Is that going to be an issue?_

“You tell me, Donovan,” he answers, going back to his paperwork. And yeah, it might be a little cruel, considering how everyone’s been kissing his arse, but people who had _nothing_ to apologize for had been crawling on their knees before him, but he hadn’t heard a goddamn thing from Donovan or Anderson.

“I’m sorry.” The words are said so softly that Lestrade doesn’t hear them at first. “I just thought...it’s like he always knew _exactly_ how everything was done or where it could be found and when...”

“You thought you finally had evidence of what you _wanted_ to be true, Donovan. You’ve never liked Sherlock because he was the one person who always called you out on your bullshit _and_ your hypocrisy. So you convinced yourself that he must be some sort of fraud and willingly blinded yourself to anything that didn’t fit in with that. What you failed to realize, Donovan, is that _plenty_ of people in this world can do things similar to what Sherlock did. They just aren’t as good at it and certainly nowhere near as showy. You want to be my Sergeant? Fine. But you do things _my_ way. And if you _ever_ go behind my back like that again, you can kiss any hope of continuing your career here goodbye. Do I make myself clear?” He finally looks up from his paperwork and the gaze he turns on her is hard. He watches the color drain out of her face and he half expects to find her request for a transfer somewhere on his desk before the end of the day. Instead, she steels herself and nods.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you’re dismissed.” As the door clicks shut behind her he lets out a heavy breath. So, new office, new team...same Sergeant. Someone out there must have a wicked sense of humor.

He plods through the rest of his paperwork, pausing occasionally for coffee or a cigarette. It’s a bad vice he’s picked up since… Well. Still, he manages to drop all of the necessary paperwork off with the administration office before he heads home. He manages to catch the tube, which saves him some money and he’s plodding back from the station to his flat when a sleek black car pulls alongside him. Despite his best efforts, his breath catches in his throat as Anthea glides out of the car.

“Detective Inspector,” she greets, her eyes soft and a small smile on her lips. Greg can’t help but smile back, even though she’s the second-to-last person he wants to be seeing right now. “Mr. Holmes requests your presence.” Ah, and there’s the first person he doesn’t want to see.

“Mr. Holmes can go fuck himself,” he tells her, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he grits his teeth. It’s been almost a year since he’s seen the older Holmes brother, but it still smarts. And if the bloody wanker thinks he can just waltz back in to Greg’s life then the man had another thing coming.

“I would appreciate it if you would come with me.”

“Anthea, I like you, I really do and it’s not your fault that your boss is a complete and utter prick. But I am _not_ getting in that car, or any _other_ vehicle belonging to anyone with the last name of Holmes. The same goes for anyone with any type of connection to the name Holmes. Now, _goodnight_.”

He walks away before he can hear her response, though he half expects to hear the car start up and start following him down the street. It doesn’t, and he tells himself that he’s not disappointed about it. He manages to make it back to his flat without any other interruptions and he barely refrains himself from slamming the front door. It would be childish to take his frustrations out on an inanimate object and the only people it would irritate would be his neighbors. Instead, he inhales deeply, blowing it all back out in a shaky breath.

“Get it together,” he tells himself. He shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it onto the back of the sofa before making his way to the bathroom. With all the stress he’s carrying, a hot shower will feel good.

With his stress somewhat abated he stumbles his way into the bedroom, drags on a pair of jammies and collapses into bed. But once there his brain will not shut off, stuck on his meeting with Anthea this afternoon. So, Mycroft wanted to see him, did he? Not something Lestrade had expected to hear. Not after… He tries to cut off the memory, but it refuses to be pushed back down.

It had been shortly after Sherlock… Anyway, he had just been suspended pending review of his cases and had packed up his office, sure even then that he wouldn’t be coming back to the Yard. He had reamed out Donovan, calling her out on everything he’d previously let slide and had punched Anderson when he tried to intervene on her behalf. He can’t quite recall what he’d called the other man at the time, nothing flattering, he’s sure, and when he had finished with the two of them, he’d addressed the room at large, making sure they knew just how much contempt he was feeling for them. He can still recall the looks of shock on all their faces. Lestrade was known to be easy going, so for him to stand in front of all his officers and just…rain down a verbal tirade…well, no one looked him in the eye when he left.

He’d been waylaid on his way home and he’d been too tired to ask why, exactly, he was being summoned by Mycroft. They had driven to the Diogenese Club, and the DI had trudged after Anthea as she led him with quick, sure steps back to Mycroft’s office. The man was at his desk and didn’t even bother to look up as the door clicked shut. Finally, Greg sighed and broke the silence himself.

“What is it now, Mycroft?” he asked tiredly.

“Something has come up.” The answer surprised the grey-haired man, seeing as how this statement was most often tied to something Sherlock was doing. He waited to hear more but Mycroft continued to diligently work on whatever problem was occupying his attention.

“Mycroft,” Greg sighed, “I know that I have all the time in the world right now, but I would like to go home at some point today. So, what is it?” Mycroft had finally set aside his phone and turned his gaze onto the man in front of him.

“As I mentioned, something has come up. As such, I will not have time to devote to you. I wanted to make you aware of this change in person.” With his message delivered, the ginger-haired man returned to his phone. Greg took a moment to process the conversation and… “You may go.”

“Right.” He agreed automatically. “Bye.” Greg most assuredly does not flee from the building. He had honestly thought that this day couldn’t get any worse and then Mycroft went and…he swallowed against the lump in his throat. Talk about kicking someone while they’re down.

As the memory ends, Greg blinks back the tears. While he still wasn’t one hundred percent sure about Mycroft, the Omega side of him had enjoyed the attention and he had honestly been toying with the idea of giving things a serious try. He had, apparently, waited too long and Mycroft had changed his mind. That’s all there was to it and there was no point in wallowing on _what ifs_ and _what might have been._ Greg would continue his life as an unbonded Omega.

That was his plan, at any rate. Unfortunately, Mycroft was never given the memo. He’s sitting at Greg’s kitchen table when the detective stumbles out for breakfast the next morning.

“Gregory,” he greets, all calm and courteous despite the tight lines of displeasure around his eyes and mouth.

“Mycroft.” He nods toward the Alpha while moving to make himself a cup of coffee. It’s six a.m. and his plans for a leisurely breakfast before heading to work have just gone tits up. He deserves the caffeine.

“A fresh pot is on,” Mycroft tells him, while seemingly turning his attention back to the paper in front of him. Lestrade rolls his eyes and while his back is toward the younger man, he’s got no doubt that Mycroft is well aware of his actions. Still, he helps himself to the coffee – it _is_ his, after all – and leans back against the counter while he waits the other man out. Finally, after what seems like a small eternity, Mycroft closes and folds the paper before turning his attention to the man in front of him. Lestrade fights the initial instinct to straighten under his gaze. Mycroft might be an Alpha, but Greg is a very strong-willed Omega and he will not be bullied in his own home. “You seem to be laboring under some misapprehension and it is my intention to disabuse you of those erroneous assumptions.” Greg blinks. It’s too early in the morning for this many syllables in one sentence.

“Mycroft, it is six in the morning, I haven’t had caffeine and you _broke in_ to my flat. Get to the point before I strangle you with your own tie.” he orders. Mycroft sits a little straighter in his chair, folding his hands on top of the table.

“Approximately eleven months ago, I requested you meet with me at my club. At the time, it was my intention to make you aware that due to a…change in circumstance I would not have as much free time to devote to your attention. It has since come to my attention that you have taken that meeting to mean that I intended to bring an end to our courtship. You assumed incorrectly.” Greg suddenly feels a warm flush throughout his body and his hand tightens on the mug until his knuckles are white.

“Do you mean to tell me, that you just decided to put a hold on everything because you were _busy_?” he asks, voice deceptively calm. “And you thought the best time to inform me of that fact was the _day I got suspended_?” He contemplates throwing the mug in his hand. If he were ten years younger, he wouldn’t even have stopped to think about it. Now it just seems like a waste of a good dish, and then he’d be stuck cleaning up the mess. Mycroft has the grace to look discomforted, at least.

“The news of your suspension had not reached me when I asked to see you.” The other man confesses. Greg snorts.

“Must have been busy for _that_ to slip by you,” he mutters. He’s still more than a little pissed off but he no longer feels like attempting murder on the British Government.

“Not even I am infallible, Gregory.” The confession causes the DI to look up from his study of the floor, and he finds Mycroft watching him with dark eyes. Lestrade’s tongue suddenly feels like it’s glued to the roof of his mouth and he swallows hard, hoping the movement will bring some moisture back. Silence envelopes the small kitchen but it feels comfortable instead of awkward and Greg makes no move to break it. Mycroft, it seems, is content to wait, his eyes cataloguing the man in front of him as if he’s attempting to make up for lost time. The thought forces a snort of amusement out of Greg’s nose, considering it was Mycroft himself who was the cause of their…separation, or whatever it was. Greg’s been trying _really hard_ not to label anything and so far, it seems to be working.

The noise draws Mycroft’s attention and he unfolds himself from the chair, crossing the kitchen in two steps to stop in front of the DI. He’s on the wrong side of older man’s personal space and anyone else would be getting a warning about now, but Greg lets it slide. Mycroft is a Holmes, after all. What does he know about boundaries?

“Something I can help you with?” he asks. It comes out a little cheekily but Greg’s okay with that. He is not nearly ready to forgive the taller man, but Mycroft isn’t asking for forgiveness – not right now.

“Gregory,” Mycroft begins.

“Mhm, that _is_ my name.”

“I _am_ sorry for the misunderstanding,” he confesses.

“I bet you are,” Lestrade agrees.

“And I _will_ make it up to you,” the ginger-haired man continues.

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

“ _Gregory.”_ Lestrade finally gives up any semblance of control and hauls the other man in. The kiss is not at all what the movies portray, too much lack of control and coordination, too much desperation. But Greg’s been playing this game for damn near two years at this point and he’s done with it. He may be a strong-willed Omega but he’s still an Omega and wanting an Alpha is hardwired into him. He could order Mycroft out of his apartment and, if he really meant it, Greg doesn’t doubt that the man would leave. But if he’s being completely honest with himself (for the first time since this all began) the DI doesn’t want him to.

Mycroft turns all of his formidable attention onto the silver-haired man and it’s all Greg can do to keep his wits about him. Holmes is a long line of solid heat against him and it’s been a long time since Greg’s found himself in this position, longer than he wants to admit. He’d tried, early on, to find an Alpha, but his mother’s words had always stuck with him and sooner or later the relationship would end when they got fed up with his hours, his independence, his refusal to rush. Mycroft, aside from his lack of ability to communicate clearly, has asked nothing of Lestrade but to be considered as a potential mate. Well, Lestrade has considered and, although still slightly miffed, he’s going to give Mycroft the go-ahead to resume courtship. Just as soon as he ends this kiss. He does, eventually, get his hands onto the taller man’s shoulders and push him away.

“That’s enough of that,” Greg says, licking his lips and gently pushing the younger man several steps away. The further the man is, the clearer Lestrade can think. “I’ve got to get ready for work,” he continues, moving past the Alpha, but he pauses to give him a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll talk later, yeah?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft smiles and Lestrade thinks that maybe his association with the Holmes family has finally made him bonkers because he finds Mycroft’s self-satisfied smile _cute._

“Have fun running the free world.” He tosses the words over his shoulder as he heads back to his bedroom, though he’s not sure whether the other man hears him or not. Holmes’ move bloody quick when they want to, and Lestrade very much doubts that Mycroft had anticipated the need to stop by Greg’s flat. He probably had to rearrange a meeting with the Prime Minister of some country the cop has never heard of just to make it here this morning. The thought brings a pleased smirk to Greg’s lips as he changes for the day.

The smile stays on his lips as he makes his way into work, traffic for once on his side. The looks on several of his colleagues faces makes him want to burst out in hysterics. He knows the gossip around the office, knows how it got worse after his marriage fell apart. But that was years ago – the final nail in the coffin occuring just after he began working with Sherlock. He was divorced and in his own apartment long before he met Mycroft and he suspects the older Holmes has already researched this part of his life before beginning his campaign to win the DI over.

“Donovan, what have we got?” he asks as he strides toward his office. The Sergeant freezes, a snarl momentarily twisting her lips, painting her face in ugly tones. “Donovan!” he snaps. He has an idea of what caused the reaction and he’s in no mood to deal with this pissing contest.

“Uh, sorry, sir,” she manages to stutter, grabbing a stack of paperwork off her desk and following him to his office. “The Waters family has struck again, a burglary in Chelmsford and we’ve a report of a missing person from Woking.” She pauses, giving the DI a once over. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone, sir.” Lestrade sighs. Just as he thought.

“That’s because it’s none of your business, Donovan. Might I remind you that I am your boss, not the other way round, and my private life is just that. Private.” All things considered, he likes Donovan, he really does. She’s a smart woman, capable when she doesn’t let her ego get in her way, and she’s a good second-in-command. But right now he would give his right arm for her to be anything but an Alpha. _Bloody territorial gits_ , he thinks bitterly. “Go talk to the family in Woking, make sure it’s not just some pissed off teenager kipping in the shed to teach the family a lesson. I’ll get forensics to process the Waters scene before heading to Chelmsford for the burglarly.” When he looks up from the paperwork he finds Donovan still hovering in his door. “NOW!” he bellows and she snaps to attention, all but fleeing from his office. _Alphas_ , he thinks again, with a shake of the head.

H is mood gets progressively worse throughout the day. Forensics turns up nothing useful at the bank, meaning that they are no further to catching the Waters gang than they were before. His trip to Chelmsford was marginally better, but it’s still going to require a lot of legwork. His stomach is growling by the time he heads back to the yard and he decides to grab lunch on the way in. He’ll meet with Donovan, see what her trip to Woking turned up and divide their effort accordingly.

It doesn’t slow down. If anything, crime seems to pick up. It’s as if every criminal suddenly discovered they had less to fear now that Sherlock Holmes was gone. The cases pile on his desk as the days pass and he closes them as quickly as he can. He’s well above the standard close rate – in fact, his superiors are more than pleased with his  closure rate – but he still can’t help feeling like he’s failing. For every case he clears from his desk, three more take its place. To make matters worse, Anderson has been loitering outside NSY trying to convince him that Sherlock isn’t dead.

Truth be told, this is information that Lestrade would  _love_ to be true. Anderson even has very compelling evidence. The thing is, though, that  if Sherlock were, in fact, alive, then there must be a  _very_ serious reason for him to want the world to believe otherwise.

“Had an interesting talk with Anderson today,” he says, picking at the salad on his plate. He spears a piece of lettuce – at least he thinks it’s lettuce. He doesn’t want to think about how long it’s been since he ate a vegetable that wasn’t mixed with noodles – and pops it into his mouth. It makes a gratifying ‘crunch’ but he would swear, under oath, that it was the only gratifying thing about the leafy green.

“I wasn’t aware that New Scotland Yard had given him his job back,” Mycroft responds. He gestures to the waiter, and the youth all but leaps forward to carry out the silent command. The detective’s salad is whisked away, replaced by the soup of the evening before he even has time to blink.

“You’re not going to be satisfied until you have the world under your thumb, are you?” he asks, more amused than anything. His companion lets his dark smile answer for him and Lestrade shakes his head. “And no, he doesn’t have his job back but he’s taken to loitering outside the office. Seems convinced that your brother is still alive.” To the average human, nothing would have changed after that sentence. Lestrade notices, however, that Mycroft’s grip on his fork tightens ever so slightly. The British Government’s body freezes for just a millisecond before continuing on as if nothing happened. _Ah_ , Lestrade thinks. “I told him he was bonkers, of course. The world watched what happened. I attended his funeral, saw his casket lowered into the ground. Besides, even if he _was_ alive, one would think he’d have to be up to some pretty dangerous stuff if he’s made everyone think he was dead for nearly two years, right?”

“Indeed. Yes, I would imagine that, had he lived, he would be focusing on dismantling Moriarty’s organization. A rather dangerous undertaking that would put several of the individuals closest to Sherlock at risk. _If_ he had lived, of course.” An amused twinkle appears in Mycroft’s eyes and Lestrade has no doubt that it’s matched in his own.

“Exactly. Told Anderson as much but I’m not sure he’s convinced. Of course, everyone knows that he’s gone a bit batty. No one’s paying much attention to him other than other conspiracy theorists. I hear the latest theory has something to do with the Americans and Area 51 research on antigravity or some such thing.”

“Ridiculous. Everyone knows Area 51 is just a front. We keep all relevant data concerning alien research and antigravity locked in HavenCo.” The information, said in such a _bored_ tone of voice, has Lestrade choking on his soup while trying to laugh.

“Of course. Naturally.” He finally manages, wiping spilled broth off of his pants and shirt. When he finally looks up, the younger man is looking at him with such an _innocent_ expression that Lestrade can’t help but begin laughing again. “ _Jesus_ , Mycroft.”

“You are truly unique, Gregory,” Mycroft tells him, his voice quiet. Lestrade snorts. Mycroft gives him a mild look of disapproval, but lets the matter drop.

Still, the words linger in his mind over the next few weeks. When he’s chasing Donovan out of his office, when he’s yelling at Anderson for the umpteenth time to leave well enough alone, when he has a frustrating case that seems impossible to crack, he replays Mycroft’s words over again. But some days...some days it’s not enough.

Greg’s been running for 28 hours. He can’t remember the last time he ate and caffeine is no longer sufficient to keep him running. His hair is muddy, his clothes caked in blood. They’d been too late and a family will be forced to bury their four-year old son. Donovan’s been filling his ear with empty platitudes the entire way back to the office but he doesn’t want to hear them. He wants a shower, he wants food, he wants

“Mycroft,” he breathes softly. He blinks, not sure if the man is actually sitting in his office or if he’s been awake long enough to start hallucinating.

“Gregory,” the other man greets, standing and facing the DI. “I understand you had a rough day, so I thought I would bring you lunch,” he gestures to the tea tray sitting on the DI’s desk, “and take you home.” He pauses, as if he’s unused to saying the next few words. “If that’s alright with you.” Lestrade smiles as much as he can when he’s this exhausted and emotionally compromised.

“Sounds perfect,” he responds, all but stumbling to his desk and sliding into the chair. “Donovan, type up your report and go home, too. Not much else we can do today.” He’s more focused on getting a cup of tea without sloshing the liquid everywhere, so it takes him a moment to realize that the woman is still darkening his doorway. He goes to snap before changing his mind. She wants to try and get into a pissing contest with Mycroft, let her.

“Who are you?” she demands, arms tightly crossed in front of her.

“I am the Alpha courting your superior office. I do believe he gave you an order. Are you normally so insubordinate?” he inquires, voice pitched to be entirely pleasant.

“That didn’t answer my question,” she snarls.

“And yet it’s the only response you’ll get. _**Run along, now**_.” Lestrade nearly laughs at the look of shock that comes over Sally’s face even as she obeys the push. He knows he’ll get an earful about it tomorrow but for now, he’s just happy to be alone with Mycroft. His presence gives the man something to center on while his emotions are still raw. Once he’s managed to eat his sandwich and drink his tea, Mycroft bundles him up and ushers him out of the office.

He’s nodding off in the back of the car so it takes him longer than usual to notice that Mycroft is taking him to his own house.

“Thought you were taking me home?” he asks, voice slurring with exhaustion.

“I was hoping we could talk about that. After you’ve slept. You have the next two days off,” the politician informs him. In some part of his mind, Greg knows he should be pissed that Mycroft took such liberties. The rest of his brain, the one currently trying to shut down from sleep deprivation, tells it to shut the hell up. A strong hand grabs his upper arm, supporting him as he clambers out of the car. They pause a moment as holds are readjusted and then the same sure hand is guiding him through the house while he shakes like a newborn colt. He’s not entirely sure when they reach the bedroom, or even how he winds up in bed, but as he sinks down into the feathery softness, he knows he’s going to find it incredibly difficult to leave.

He awakes with a start and a glance at the clock shows it to be 1:00 pm on what Lestrade is hoping is only the next day. He slides out of bed despite his body’s protests and manages to find the en suite bathroom on his first try. Soap and hair product – the same brandes that he uses – are already on the counter for his use and he wonders if this is what Mycroft meant when he said he wanted to talk to Greg.

“Good morning, Gregory,” Mycroft greets as the detective finally manages to make his way into the kitchen.

“I need a bloody map to get around this place,” he grouses back, but he takes the sting out of the words by dropping a kiss into ginger hair on his way past. While Greg has been living in a one-bedroom flat, Mycroft’s house was one of the old Manor homes that were dotted around the city. Mycroft’s had three floors, several bedrooms and bathrooms, a kitchen, dining room, lounge and many more rooms that Lestrade didn’t even know the technical names for. It was, in short, a mini-palace.

“I’m am confident that you will be able to figure things out soon enough.” The sentence catches both men off guard with its implications. Was the detective ready to move in?

“Give me enough time and I’m sure it will be old hat,” he responds, piling food onto his breakfast plate to avoid looking at the other man.

“Yes, well...” Mycroft clears his throat. “That is one discussion taken care of.”

“Oh, we’re going to have more than one?” Greg asks as he sits down and grabs his fork. “What an exciting morning.” Mycroft sighs.

“There are other things I’d like to address.”

“Such as?” he asks as he crunches on his bacon.

“Your suppressant usage, bonding and marriage.” Lestrade sputters, spraying orange juice across the hardwood table. “Really, Gregory,” Mycroft tuts.

“You don’t just spring that on a bloke after he’s just woken up!” he defends, standing and grabbing a towel to mop up with.

“Yes, I suppose that _is_ true.” Mycroft muses. “While I have always been better at societal norms than Sherlock, they _can_ still be troublesome.” Lestrade snorts, tossing the clothe into the sink to dry.

“You can pick _one,_ Holmes, and then I need to go submit my report.”

“Very well. Your suppressant usage. You have used suppressants regularly, even continuing to use them once you were married to your now ex-wife, though your usage was not as regular.” Lestrade wills himself not to blush. He cannot believe he is having this conversation. “However, since your divorce, you have been taking the suppressants regularly for over four years now.”

“And?” Greg prompts.

“You know as well as I do what the long term effects of suppressant usage are and the danger they pose to your health and body.” Yes, Greg knew. Prolonged usage of suppresants could leave an Omega entirely sterile, provided they didn’t kill them first. “I am not asking that you quit taking them _now_ ,” Mycroft continues, before the older man can argue. “I am simply asking that you think about weaning off them in the near future. Just for a little while so your body has time to recover.”

“I take it this was also why you wanted to talk about bonding,” Lestrade sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face as he leans against the counter.

“It would be an opportune time, _if_ it is something you are willing to consider.” The DI glances at the younger man, who is still seated at the table. It reminds him of the time, nearly a year ago, when Mycroft broke into his flat to talk to him.

“Okay,” he sighs. The ginger-haired man finally drags his eyes away from the hardwood table. “Yeah, we can...we can figure something out.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft breathes. “ _Thank you.”_ There is a part of Lestrade that thinks Mycroft never really expected the DI to agree to this, any of it. When he’s being honest with himself, there is a part of Greg that never really intended to submit. It’s the part of him that snarls hurtful things at the politician when they’re having a row, the part of him that leaves clutter around the house in a passive-aggressive tactic to annoy Mycroft’s OCD tendencies. Still, most if him is just in shock that this incredibly powerful man, and even more powerful Alpha, seems to want _him,_ even after getting to know him for the past three years.

They talk about things further, awkward, halting conversations about when would be best. Not now, clearly. Greg’s still buried under a pile of cases and Mycroft is still running the free world from the shadows, something about trouble in Germany, but soon. Gregory will let Mycroft know when he catches a break at work so the politician can rearrange his schedule and ensure he is not disturbed.

“Good,” Lestrade states, face more than a little red and honestly, this should not be nearly as embarrassing as it is given their ages and the fact that they both have a sexual history behind them.

“Quite,” Mycroft agrees, though the tips of his ears are burning. Suddenly Lestrade cannot stop giggling. “Gregory,” the younger man tries to admonish but it does nothing and before long, Mycroft is joining in himself.

“It’s just... _clinical_ ,” Lestrade gasps. “When would be a convenient time to shag?” he chokes out around another mouthful of laughter. “16th of March convenient for you? No, no I’m meeting the Prime Minister of Uzbekistan.” He erupts into a fresh round of giggles and Mycroft is not far behind him. Once they finally manage to calm down and wipe the tears from their eyes, Mycroft hauls the shorter man in and kisses him.

“I really do love you, Gregory,” he whispers, following the statement with a softer brush of the lips. Something within the older man melts at the confession.

“Love you, too,” he whispers back, dragging the taller man back into another kiss. It’s more heated and if one of them doesn’t back off things are going to spiral out of control. Lestrade turns his face away and gasps for breath, fully intending on putting an end to this, when Mycroft affixes his lips to Greg’s neck and all cognitive thought flies south for the winter. He never does make it to the office that day.

They get Gregory moved into the house and settle into a comfortable rhythm with each other. Mycroft promises not to meddle in the DI’s career unless absolutely necessary, which then involves sitting down and discussing what was, in fact, deemed ‘necessary’ to the British Government. They continue sleeping together as fits their schedule and while neither of their schedules has slowed enough for Greg to even consider stopping his suppressants, he does agree to wear an engagement ring.

It’s another late night as he makes his way through the car park, and he’s digging in his pockets for a cigarette and lighter. He’s cut back, with Mycroft’s help, but he hasn’t quite kicked the habit yet. He’s aware that he’s being shadowed, but he can’t quite make out whether it’s one of Mycroft’s men, or someone he should be concerned about, so he stops, pausing to light up.

“Those things will kill you.” Lestrade freezes. He’d known, on some level, that the annoying brat was still alive. Mycroft had more or less confirmed it, as much as he was able to. Still, hearing that voice after two years...

“Oh, you bastard!” he tells hims, tugging the cigarette out of his mouth and turning to the right.

“It’s time to come back,” Sherlock tells him, finally stepping out of the shadows. “You’ve been letting things slide, Graham.”

“Greg.”

“Greg,” he corrects. Lestrade thinks about socking him one, just because the prat really does deserve it but it looks, judging by the split lip, that John’s already beaten him to it. So he does the next best thing. He hugs the tall bastard. He feels the younger man stiffen, uncertain as to what, precisely, he’s supposed to do while he’s being held hostage. Finally, Greg releases him, calls him every possible name in the book and heads home.

“I take it Sherlock stopped by to see you.” Lestrade snorts. He doubts his fiance, and god it sounds weird saying that, will ever actually greet him like a normal person.

“Yeah, must have come from seeing John. He has a hell of a split lip,” he responds as he enters the living room and tosses the mail on the table.

“Yes, I heard they made quite a spectacle in the restaurant. Sherlock crashed his proposal to Mary. You’re invited to the wedding, by the way.” Mycroft informs him, glancing up from his book.

“Oh, he finally proposed? Wait, if he just proposed, how do you even know who’s invited to the wedding?” Mycroft gifts him with an enigmatic smile and Lestrade rolls his eyes. “You’re impossible, you know that? What’s on for tonight?” he asks, settling onto the ridiculously comfortable couch he’d bribed the younger man into buying.

“I thought we might have a quiet night in. Since my _darling_ brother has decided to rise from the grave, ‘quiet’ will be a thing of the past for both of us.”

“Christ, I didn’t think about that,” Greg groans, dragging a hand across his face. Mycroft chuckles softly before setting his book aside. “He’s going to be a nightmare, isn’t he?”

“Even more than usual,” the younger man agrees. “He’s dead set on making up for lost time. Although if John forgives him then Sherlock will no doubt be distracted by best man duties for the next few months. I estimate the likelihood of such an occurrence to be...nintey-three percent. Taking Mary’s feelings on the matter into account, it increases to nintey-seven percent. Indian food for dinner?” he asks, pushing himself out of the armchair he’d been sitting in.

“Sherlock as best man... Think any of them will survive for the wedding?”

Lestrade’s not sure that _he’s_ going to survive until the wedding. Sherlock’s barely been back a month and John’s been kidnapped, nearly burned alive and then almost blown up. It’s like a bad repeat of Dartmoor, only this time there’s no evidence as to who the culprit is – at least not for John’s kidnapping. The DI has Lord Moran in custody for the explosives, at least until he has to transfer him to Mycroft’s people, but not even Sherlock has a clue as to who tried to burn John alive. Still, the craziness seems to be enough for John to finally let go of his resentment, and a wedding date has been set, with Sherlock as best man.

_Told you. -MH_

Lestrade rolls his eyes at the text even as he fights back a smile. As he watches John and Sherlock leave the station, he can’t help feeling like things are finally going right.

* * *

He’s going to kill Sherlock which will, inevitably, lead to John murdering him with the gun he still (illegaly) owns. But Lestrade had _just_ been about to arrest the Waters family when he’d received a panicked text from the consulting detective. He’d rushed to 221B, calling for backup on the way and when he’d all but crashed through the apartment door, he’d found Sherlock in a strop over the best man speech.

“Bloody _hell,_ Sherlock!” he shouts. His head is throbbing from repressed rage and he has never wanted a cigarette so badly as he does right now. He has no doubt that Mycroft will smooth things over with his superiors, but he still won’t hear the end of this from Donovan.

“It’s John’s wedding, that’s more much important than some robberies.” Completely unapologetic, as always. Greg grits his teeth and staunchly reminds himself that slugging the younger man will not do him any favors in the long run. He settles for imagining increasingly improbable ways of killing him as he stomps back down the stairs before slamming the door on his way out. Then he sends an apology text to Mrs. Hudson for the noise.

“How fond are you of your brother?” he asks as he gets home that night.

“It depends on the day, I suppose,” Mycroft asks, not even missing a beat. As miffed as he still is, the answer gets a chuckle out of the DI. “At least wait until _after_ John’s wedding. The poor man is under enough stress without having to get a replacement best man.”

“Fair enough.”

“Incidentally, your suit arrived today.” That gives the DI a pause.

“Suit? I didn’t order a suit.” He had received his invite – was even surprised to see it included a ‘plus one’ that was evidently meant for Mycroft. But Mycroft had an all day meeting with the President of Kyrgyzstan – which Greg had since learned was a country in Central Asia – and so he had resigned himself to going alone. As such, he had been planning on wearing one of the suits he already owned for the actual wedding, before slipping out early from the reception.

“I did,” Mycroft informs him as he slips an arm around the DI’s waist and presses a kiss to the corner of his lips. “Your old suits are getting to be too big for you. With your dietary changes and chasing after Sherlock the weight is practically flowing off you.” Lestrade watches his partner leave the room, only to walk back in with a garment bag. The older man unzips it and stares down at a light grey suit paired with a light blue shirt. The material looks expensive and the DI has no doubt that it will fit him like a glove.

“Mycroft, I-” he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. _I can’t believe you ordered clothes for me without_ _consulting me first_ _? This costs more than I make in a month and I’m mildly terrified to even put it on?_ _How do I get stains out when I inevitably drop something on it?_ “It’s lovely.”

“I wanted something that would suit you,” he says, eyes firmly kept on the suit. “We’ll have to choose an appropriate tie, but you will look quite dashing in it.” Greg’s brain short circuits.

“Tie?” he asks.

“Yes. I know you abhor them, so I will loan you one of mine.” The ginger-haired man pauses and Lestrade has no doubt that the man is mentally reviewing every tie he owns. “I think the navy blue one with white spots will work quite nicely.”

“Ta,” he sighs, zipping the bag closed. He’s learning how to choose his battles and arguing over the suit is just not worth it.

He changes his mind when he’s sitting next to Molly Hooper at the reception. It’s worse knowing that he’s alone not because Mycroft _can’t_ make it – his meeting with the President has since been rescheduled – but because the man has _chosen_ not to attend. Greg himself had decided on leaving the reception after Sherlock’s speech, but it’s dragging on forever and in the meantime he’s stuck next to Molly Hooper who has no qualms with drapping herself all over her new boyfriend. Still, he downs a glass of alcohol and does his best not to be too much of a rainy cloud on this most blissful day. Once the speeches begin, he focuses on what Sherlock’s saying and he’s even able to laugh a bit. He’s still got the video from John’s bachelor night out with the consulting detective and reviews it on days when the younger Holmes is being particularly irritating. Things quickly go south, however, when the man-child figures out that there is going to be a death at the reception.

By the end of the day, Lestrade is booking a photographer for the death of a guardsman and the attempted murder of Major Sholto. It’s days like these that severely tax his patience: Bainbridge has lost his life for no reason and Jonathan Small will be locked up for a good majority of his. It’s a goddamn waste. He’s scribbling the last of his notes, his pen close to tearing through the paper with his frustration when his phone rings. He contemplates not answering – he can’t guarantee not to shout at whoever is calling, but he snags the mobile and answers without looking.

“I understand you’ve had a rather taxing day.” Lestrade sighs and slouches back in his chair.

“That’d be an understatement. Do I want to even ask how you know?” He hears Mycroft chuckle on the other end of the phone and some of his irritation leaks away.

“Come home, Gregory. The paperwork can wait.” Lestrade mutters something about his superior officers disagreeing with that statement, but it’s a half-hearted protest, if that, and they both know it. A car is already waiting at the curb when he gets outside and he slides into the backseat with a soft groan. It’s times like these when he cannot remember why he fought so hard against Mycroft’s courtship to begin with.

He stumbles into the house and follows Mycroft’s voice to the kitchen, where dinner is already laid out. Lestrade tucks into the food with relish. He hadn’t really had a chance to eat anything more than hors d’oeuvre at the reception, and he’s discovered, since moving in with the elder Holmes, that the man is a hidden chef, though Mycroft often argues that it’s merely chemistry and following instructions. Afterward, Mycroft propels him up the stairs and into the master bedroom, where he maneuvers Lestrade’s body and limbs until he’s tucked under the covers. Lestrade thinks, belatedly, that he should probably protest the treatments. He is, after all, a fully grown adult, but he’s too tired and is still slightly tipsy from drinking on a relatively empty stomach at the reception.

He awakens the next day with a slight headache. Still, there’s medicine and a glass of water sitting on his nightstand and that, along with a warm shower, will make the day tolerable. He’s still slightly damp when he enters the kitchen. He offers a quiet ‘morning’ to Mycroft, who already has his mobile glued to his ear. Lestrade grabs two slices of toast, pours a thermos of coffee and is out the door, tossing a waive goodbye to the taller man.

Things are relatively quiet after John and Mary’s wedding. Even Sherlock seems to have made himself scarce and Lestrade is hopeful that the younger man is focusing on his burgeoning consulting career. The hopes are dashed when Molly calls him in hysterics. After hanging up his phone, Lestrade wants to shut his office door, close the blinds and destroy every bit of furniture in his office. He settles for shutting the door – slightly more aggressively than normal – and calling Mycroft.

“Gregory. This is a surprise.” It is indeed. With both of their schedules, a random phone call in the middle of the day is not something they can typically take pleasure in. For a moment Lestrade feels guilty for the bombshell he’s about to drop.

“I wish I were calling for pleasure. Unfortunately, I’ve just had a call from Molly Hooper.” He takes a moment to inhale deeply before pushing through with the rest of the news. “It seems John was asked by a neighbor to look for her son – a young chap with a bad drug problem. He went to the usual haunt. Found the kid...and Sherlock. He insisted he was there for a case but John had Molly screen him and...he didn’t pass.” The silence on the other end of the line is deafening and Greg cringes despite knowing that none of this is his fault.

“I see. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will pay a visit to my brother this afternoon.” The man’s tone is back to its usual crisp professionalism and somehow that makes everything worse.

“Myc...”

“It is no one’s fault, Gregory,” he interrupts. “You, John, me, we’ve all done everything possible to help him. I will visit him and ascertain how truthful he was being to Dr. Watson and how susceptible he is to falling back into old habits. I will let you know what I find tonight. I hope your day ends on a more positive note,” he adds, tone softening and Greg lets out a small chuckle.

“I’d say the same, but...”

“Yes, quite,” Mycroft agrees. Lestrade can only imagine the look on the younger man’s face at the thought of trying to reason with Sherlock while he’s detoxing.

“See you tonight.”

“Until later, then.”

He’s in the kitchen when Mycroft gets home, because while he is nowhere near as good a cook, he has never poisoned anyone. He’s putting the chicken in the oven when the older Holmes sits at the table and Greg doesn’t miss the way he’s favoring one side of his body.

“What happened?” he asks, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms.

“Sherlock. My own fault, really,” the younger man sighs. “I should have known better than to try to reason with him when he was still high.”

“What’s this all about then?” He’s been dying to know what had set Sherlock off again, so much that he had been fairly useless at the office. He moves behind Mycroft and begins massaging the sore appendage. Mycroft allows a groan of appreciation as his muscles begin to relax.

“He wasn’t lying – he was undercover for a case. Unfortunately, my little brother has decided to try and take on Charles Magnussen.”

“Shite, he might as well just paint a bullseye on himself and be done with it,” Greg mutters, sinking into the chair next to his partner.

“That was rather the point of the drugs. His way of getting Magnussen’s attention, at _Lady Smallwood’s_ request.” The DI doesn’t miss the venom injected into the name. He’s heard a little about her from Mycroft, and it’s enough to make his own ex-wife look like a _saint._

“I’ll try and keep an eye on him, but I can’t let him near any cases until he’s clean at least three months. He agreed to that when I first brought him in as a consulting detective and I’m not going to change that.”

“I doubt he’ll be near any cases until Magnussen is dealt with. It’s not just Lady Smallwood being threatened. It could very well cause problems for Doctor Watson as well.”

“John? What could Magnussen possibly blackmail _him_ with?”

“Not Doctor Watson, Gregory. His wife.”

The words cause an unpleasant sensation within Greg’s body and it leaves him feeling sick to his stomach as the days pass by. He’s waiting on tenterhooks and when news comes in that Sherlock’s been shot, he races to the A&E. The younger man is already in surgery and the outlook is dim, based on what John’s told him about the ambulance ride over but somehow, Sherlock manages to pull through. He’s not happy to hear that they’ve hooked him up on morphine, but the man has been shot at rather close range, so he’s not about to kick up a fuss. Besides, if Mycroft thought it would have been a real problem, it already would have been taken care of. Instead, he heads in a few hours later, ready to take Sherlock’s statement about his shooter. Except Sherlock seems to have checked himself out of the hospital – via the window. Gregory lets several curses fly, running out of the A&E with John on his heels. In less than five minutes he’s got officers combing three of Sherlock’s main boltholes, with another two added to the list courtesy of Mycroft. And when Sherlock shows up in the hospital again after doing God knows what, Lestrade tears him a new one himself.

Things are relatively quiet after that, seeing as how Mycroft’s assessment proves true. Sherlock is nowhere ot be found around Scotland Yard following his shooting and Lestrade has no doubt that it’s because he’s still chasing after Magnussen. Mycroft is more active himself, clearly anticipating his brother’s movements and doing everything possible to mitigate any damage that will result from his actions. Lestrade decides that he really doesn’t want to know and stays out of it. He’s rather thankful for it a mere few months later.

He’s missing Christmas with the Holmes and while he’s not sorry to avoid whatever fight Sherlock is likely to start, it means that he’s putting off another meeting with Mycroft’s parents and he’s worried that they’ll think he’s purposely avoiding them.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gregory. They know the demands of your profession and respect it. We will merely reschedule.”

“This is the third time, Mycroft,” Greg grumbles and he struggles to button up his shirt. Tiny buttons before caffeine are _evil_. “You’d think criminals could respect the sanctity of the holiday and take a break.”

“Perhaps these criminals skipped that portion of the handbook.” The DI does his best to hang on to his foul mood, but a sarcastic Mycroft _still_ has the ability to disarm him and a chuckle escapes despite his best effort.

“Alright, smart ass. Give my apologies to your folks and try not to fight with your brother too much, yeah?”

“I will convey your sentiments and make no promises,” comes the response and Lestrade makes sure that his eye roll is extra exaggerated as he makes his way out the door. He hopes that Mycroft will have a better day than he will, but between Sherlock and the Watsons, who are having some type of marital tiff most likely related to whatever Magnussen has on Mary, he sincerely doubts it.

He’s at his desk when he gets the text. He stares at screen like it will magically erase the words, or at least turn them into something more comprehensible, but they remain the same.

_Magnussen dead. Sherlock in custody. Will be handled by the government. - MH_

Lestrade really wishes that he could have gone to the bloody party.

Mycroft asks if he wants to see Sherlock off, but Lestrade declines. He knows Sherlock’s being sent to his death and Greg’s always been rubbish at farewells. He stops by Baker Street the night before and has a quick word with the younger man. It’s simultaneously better and worse than when Sherlock committed ‘suicide’. Then, Greg hadn’t known what was coming. Now, he is well aware and it coats his tongue in putty, making it impossible to speak.

“How long, then?”

“Mycroft estimates six months. He’s never wrong.”

“...prove him wrong.” The words make Sherlock smirk and Greg tries to match it, even if it is a rather poor attempt. The next morning, he waits until Mycroft leaves and then heads to the pub for a pint and the football game. It manages to distract him, at least until the game is replaced with a face he never wanted to see again.

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

No. No he did not. Still, despite the twisting in his guts, something in his chest unclenches. If Moriarty is back, there is no possible way Sherlock will be sent away. He wonders, briefly, if this was part of Mycroft’s plan. If it is, it’s utterly brilliant. If it isn’t, better that both Holmes’ are in England.

Things settle soon afterward. Footage is released of Magnussen being taken out by a perp off-screen, clearing Sherlock of any wrongdoing. No pardon necessary and they’re back in business. Sherlock doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to rush after Moriarty, or whoever it is acting on his behalf and once the drugs are cleared from his system, he’s back to solving cases. With Sherlock back in business, it’s not just Lestrade eager to utilize his knowledge. It’s become common-place for the DI’s to consult with him. Thankfully, Lestrade is able to clear a number of his cases himself before feeling the pressure with the Welsborough case. With the son of a cabinet minister dead, the higher ups at the Yard want the boy’s death solved yesterday and Lestrade knows the facts are just odd enough to interest Sherlock. He takes the file and heads to Baker Street.

He’s there for all of fifteen minutes before John comes flying through the door and he’s a bit surprised to see him, what with Rosie and his job. He doesn’t know when the doctor finds time to sleep. Still, he lays out the case and isn’t surprised to find Sherlock positively giddy over it.  He’s more than a little irritated when Sherlock asks him to take credit and it may or may not have induced a rant.

“Yeah, you say that, and then John blogs about it, and you get all the credit anyway,” he sighs, missing John’s murmur of agreement. “Which makes me look like some kind of prima donna who insists on getting credit for something he didn’t do...like I’m some kind of credit junkie. So you take all the glory, thank you.” With Sherlock’s agreement to take the case, Lestrade feels himself relax for the first time. As they make their way out of the apartment, he’s even able to have a bit of a laugh with John. It’s made even better by the fact that Sherlock clearly doesn’t understand it.

The relaxation is gone as soon as they get to the Welsborough house. He’s well aware that Sherlock doesn’t give a damn about most people, but he can’t even be bothered to remember that it was a boy that was killed, not a girl.

“And then his preoccupation with the bloody plaster bust!” Greg grouses over dinner. Mycroft makes a noise which could just as well mean _I’m so terribly sorry about my idiotic brother_ as it could _how could you miss what’s so important about the broken bust_ and if Mycroft has any hope of sleeping in the same bed his sentiment had better be the former.

“Sherlock does tend to get rather strange fixations at unusual times. I hope you were able to smooth things over with the Welsboroughs?”

“Yeah, Sherlock did actually explain what happened with the kid. I don’t think it gave the parents any relief knowing that their son was actually dead for a full week right under their noses but...” Lestrade trails off with a heavy sigh and a shrug. He watches as Mycroft tops off both of their glasses of wine before grabbing his cup and taking a sip. “But why the preoccupation with the shattered bust?” he can’t help but wonder, staring into burgundy liquid.

“Gregory,” Mycroft chides. “Do not try to follow my brother’s line of thinking. That way lies madness.” The DI snorts, but brings his attention back to his companion.

“Easy for you to say. You’re usually five steps ahead of him while I’m five steps behind.” His voice is teasing, but Lestrade also knows it’s the truth.

“You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit. You and Dr. Watson both keep up with us much better than the rest of the populace.”

“We still must seem like apes to you.”

“I prefer the term ‘goldfish’.” Mycroft responds dryly and Greg can’t help the laugh that escapes him. The small smile it gets from the younger man is certainly a plus, especially when he reaches across the table and clasps Greg’s hand. Lestrade decides he can live with Sherlock’s strange fixations if this is what he gets in return.

* * *

It seems that Sherlock’s strange fixations are now Greg’s problem. Three different busts have been smashed, all in different locations and he know finds himself pacing around the kitchen of 221B while Sherlock looks at bits of plaster under a microscope. He wishes the younger Holmes would hurry up because Greg is supposed to be meeting Mycroft in twenty minutes. When Sherlock mentions blood, his heart sinks. He’s going to have to cancel.

Or not, seeing as how Sherlock decides to go meet someone named ‘Toby’  and Greg is free to meet up with Mycroft. Thankfully, Sherlock only thinks they’re going for lunch. He’s not sure if he’s just been successful at hiding something from Sherlock or if the man is so perturbed knowing that his brother has a romantic life that he honestly tries not to think about it. He’ll take it as a win either way, as he  _really_ doesn’t want Sherlock to know that they’re going to meet with a doctor.  As the car pulls up outside of the  Diogenese Club , he wonders if it’s too late to run.

“Good afternoon, Greg,” Anthea greets and the DI manages a wan smile. “Mr. Holmes is inside filling out the forms.” She leads him back through the club and Greg waits until they are in one of the back hallways to speak.

“My forms?” he inquires. “He’s inside filling out my medical history? Hm. Guess there’s no need for me to be here, then,” he says, though he follows the younger woman into the office anyway.

“Don’t be absurd, Gregory,” Mycroft retorts without even looking up. “I am not the one the doctor will need to look over.”

“You sure?” the older man teases. “Seem to be doing everything else just fine without me. If there were ever a man who could bond without an Omega, it’d be you.”

“Really, Gregory.”

“I have every faith.” The DI responds solemnly. Mycroft finally looks up from the clipboard in his hand and gives the older man a distinctly unimpressed look. The sight is enough to send the copper into hysterics and Mycroft sighs as if he has never been so put upon as in that moment. A knock interrupts.

“Mr. Holmes and Mr. Lestrade?”

“Enter,” Mycroft calls. The door opens and Anthea ushers in an older female. “Ah, Dr. Agarwal, thank you for meeting with us.” The politician rises and shakes the doctor’s hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes. And this must be your partner.” She turns and Lestrade rises to greet her. After a quck handshake, she gets down to business. “I was told that it was a bit of an unusual situation. The two of you have been together for a while now, but are still unbonded. In fact, you, Mr. Lestrade, are still using suppressants?”

“Ah, yeah. I’m sure you understand that Mycroft has a rather demanding job and my work schedule as a DI is a bit erratic so timing has been...an issue.” Greg trails off. “We discussed things and, at the time it just seemed like a better idea to continue with the suppressants until we’re able to bond.”

“I understand. I take it that the situation has now changed and you are, in fact, preparing for a bond, which means you’ll be coming off suppressants and looking to switch to just birth control, is that correct as well?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Okay, so what we’ll do, then, is run a couple of tests, see what, if any, side effects might be in play due to your prolonged usage of suppressants, test your fertility rate and then see what birth control will work best for you. Alright?”

~

“Well that was disturbingly...thorough.” Greg shudders as he slides back into his jacket.

“A necessary evil. Unless you’ve suddenly changed your mind about wanting children.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” he admonishes, knocking his shoulder against Mycroft’s arm.

“We could have waited,” Mycroft reminds him.

“Mycroft, if you wanted to keep waiting until I was ready to see a doctor we’d have both been in the grave. I’m _never_ going to want to see a doctor, much less be poked and prodded by one. But better we do so _before_ I wound up pregnant, yeah? ...unless you’ve suddenly changed your mind about wanting children,” he quotes.

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Didn’t think so,” he grins. “Right then, I’m off to see what your brother’s found out about these plaster busts. See you tonight.”

Lestrade did not, in fact, see Mycroft that night. Two more of the plasters were destroyed and this time a dead body was involved. Lestrade grits his teeth and calls Sherlock. They had a bit more to work on this time. Thanks to Sherlock’s...friend... they knew that there were six busts, all made in Tbilisi. With five of them smashed, only one was left.

He’s not sure how plaster busts suddenly turned into an international hunt for a former  assassin but Lestrade has long since stopped being surprised about  _anything_ when Sherlock bloody Holmes is involved. Whatever is going on is far above his security clearance, though it doesn’t stop him from being on hand when they go to arrest Lady Smallwood’s secretary. And then things spin further out of control when Mary jumps in front of the bullet meant for Sherlock. He steps out for a moment, shouting abuse over the wires, demanding an ambulance as John goes rushing past him. By the time he makes it back, Mary is gone and all he can do is watch the wreckage as John unleashes all of his rage. Sherlock takes it, no protest, no excuses, looking more human than Greg has ever seen him in the ten years he’s known him.  Even Mycroft seems affected by Mary’s death. The silence is interrupted by the piercing wails of the ambulance – too late, much too late – but Greg’s not about to abandon John now. He stuck by him after Sherlock’s death, he’ll stick by him after Mary’s death, too. It seems to take ages before John is willing to turn Mary over to the medics and Greg packs him into the car, drives him back to his house, to Rosie. He trusts Mycroft to get Sherlock back to Baker Street, because there is no way Greg can take both of them. John is still furious and if Greg’s being honest, he’s not sure this is something the friends will be able to bounce back from.

By the time he gets home, he feels so much older than his actual age.  There’s a deep despair clawing at the back of his throat but Greg refuses to cry. John has been through so much, so bloody much; Greg doesn’t feel like he has the right to mourn Mary. Still, he really had liked her. She was kind, and funny and smart as a whip and a contract killer to boot. No wonder she got along with John and Sherlock so well. She had finally gotten the little bit of peace she was after, a husband and daughter and she was killed by a goddamn secretary. The unfairness of the universe was staggering.

“Gregory.” The voice is soft, and Greg finds himself all but collapsing into the arms of the elder Holmes brother. “Come to bed.” The tone isn’t quite strict enough to be an order. Greg could ignore it if he really wanted to, but he’s so tired, so very tired. He lets himself be pushed up the stairs, down the hallways and into the bedroom, where he makes a token effort to undress himself before Mycroft does it for him, pushing him into bed and sliding in after him.

“How’s Sherlock?” he slurs, but Mycroft shushes him and he falls asleep soon afterward.

He feels marginally less dead in the morning  but he’s nowhere near ready to face the day. There are times where he wishes he was a little less dedicated, where he wishes he didn’t feel such goddamn loyalty to Sherlock and John. Still, he knows John is not going to want to talk to any other DI and Sherlock certainly isn’t going to listen to anyone else, not today, so Lestrade drags himself out of bed, gets himself caffeinated and faces the day.

He talks to John first, running out to the house so John won’t be inconvenienced by coming to the station. It’s difficult, but Greg manages and while he understands John’s anger and resentment, he still can’t help but try to temper the flames.

“John, I’m not saying you have to forgive him. But you’re the one who spent years reminding him that he’s human – that he’s not infallible. So why are you suddenly holding him to that same standard?”

There is, of course, no answer to that question but Greg wasn’t really expecting one. He leaves with a promise to check in, and an offer to babysit when needed.  Then it’s a quick drive to Sherlock’s where the DI finds the consulting detective all but catatonic in his chair. For a moment, Lestrade worries that the younger Holmes is once again under the influence of drugs, but he’s not.

In a way, taking Sherlock’s statement is worse than taking John’s. With John, Greg had to keep stopping to let the man calm down as he rehashed everything he could remember from last night. Sherlock recalls every detail with precision, but there is an underlying strain in his voice and Greg knows the man is more affected than he’s letting on. The fact that John is still unwilling to speak to him is even more of a hit to the man’s stunted emotions. By the time he gets back to his office, he is exhausted and at a loss as to how he can help his friends. With a groan, Lestrade decides to call it a day and he heads home, crawling back into bed once he gets the re.

H e emerges, eventually, to eat and answer some text and voice messages pertaining to cases he’s currently working on. There’s a voice message from Dr. Agarwal, following up on his tests and recommending certain medications but a bond is the last thing on Lestrade’s mind considering John’s just lost his. There will be a funeral, of course, and someone will need to keep an eye on Sherlock in case there’s a danger night in the near future and  _Jesus._ Lestrade runs his fingers through his hair, half-tempted just to rip it all out.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

“How long was I out?” he asks, turning to face Mycroft. He’s long since stopped jumping in surprise whenever the man sneaks up on him.

“A few hours. I’d have woken you, but you looked like you needed it.” Mycroft crosses the kitchen, peering into the shorter man’s face. “You look better,” he decides. “How are you holding up?”

“As well as can be expected. John’s a mess and I think Sherlock’s worse, if possible. ...I don’t know if John’s going to forgive him for this one.”

“He will. Eventually.” The certainty in Mycroft’s voice gives him hope and he clings to it stubbornly. He clings to it as Mary is cremated and buried. He clings to it as John continues to struggle, foisting Rosie off on friends when he’s too poorly off to take care of her himself. He clings to it as Sherlock locks himself away and loses himself in drugs. He clings to it because it is the only hope he has that things might get better.

W hen Sherlock manages to implicate Culverton Smith in a number of murders, repairing his friendship with John at the same time, Lestrade thinks they’ve managed to turn a corner. The Dynamic Duo are back in action and Lestrade has hours of tape of Culverton confessing to murder after murder after murder.  He finally calls it a night, heading home so he can finally try and regroup. He really just wants to curl into bed with Mycroft, but the younger man is still at work so Lestrade picks up some take away and parks himself in the living room, tv playing on low in the background.

He’s drowsing when he hears the ‘click’ of the front door. He manages to rouse himself enough to greet Mycroft in the front hall, wrapping the man in a hug before stiffening and pulling away.

“Gregory,” Mycroft begins.

“Don’t,” he growls. “Tell me there’s a good reason you’re drenched in her scent.”

“There was an...issue in identifying the person negotiating with the terrorists in Tbilisi. Due to the code word _amo_ , we initially believed it to be Lady Smallwood, and she was held and questioned before we realized that it was actually her secretary we were after. Lady Smallwood has proven herself to be quite resentful over the misunderstanding, and felt something was owed to her.” Greg feels his stomach clench.

“Tell me you didn’t.” When Mycroft finally looks him in the eye, Greg turns away.

“Gregory...”

“No,” he interrupts. “Jesus, Mycroft, I understand that there are certain things expected of you, but not this, not when we haven’t even had a chance to _bond_. How _could_ you?” he asks. Mycroft knows _exactly_ what had caused the dissolution of his first bond.

“It was a one time occurrence,” the ginger-haired man states.

“That makes me feel so much better,” the DI growls, slapping Mycroft’s hands away as he reaches for the detective.

“I told you before that there were things our queen and country demand of me.”

“Excuse me for thinking your body was no longer included on that list!” he shouts. “I can’t...talk to you about this, not right now.”

“As long as I remain an unbonded Alpha, this will be expected. Once bonded...where are you going?” Mycroft asks, turning to watch the older man stalk towards the front door.

“Deduce it!” Greg snarls, shoving his socked feet into his shoes before grabbing his jacket and slamming the door shut behind him. Truth be told, he hasn’t given much thought to where he’s going. He doesn’t want to put Sherlock or John out, but if he pays for a hotel room, it will be ridiculously easy for Mycroft to track him. Not that the man doesn’t already have every camera in the area trained on him. Lestrade growls in annoyance.

They had, early in their relationship, spoken of the demands of Mycroft’s job. And Mycroft  _had_ confessed that he had given up certain parts of himself while in the line of duty. But that was  _suppossed_ to be in the past.  He was no longer working in the field, his work primarily behind the scenes, so Lestrade felt safe in assuming that he wouldn’t need to share the younger man in such a capacity. Clearly he was wrong.

Lestrade curls his fists into the pockets of his jacket and walks along the street. Early in his association with Sherlock, the consulting detective had given him the locations in London where cameras were scarce. Lestrade heads to one such location, hoping to elude his tail. He doesn’t want Mycroft to know where he is, doesn’t want anything to do with the man right now. Just to be extra spiteful, he shuts off his phone and takes the battery out, making it near impossible to track him that way. He wanders in and out of back alleys and abandoned locations before turning up on Molly Hooper’s doorstep. Surprisingly, she’s still awake and gracious enough to let him borrow her couch without any questions.

In the morning, Lestrade reluctantly heads back to the house to change before heading into work. Mycroft has left for the day, though a note has been left for him. Lestrade grabs it, but doesn’t open it, instead grabbing a shower before packing a bag and heading to the Yard. He’ll figure out his next steps later.

At work he throws himself into his cases, extra invigorated to take his mind off of things. Aside from his workload it’s relatively quiet – no noise from John or Sherlock and he almost feels like texting one or both of them to make sure they’re alright. It’s then that he realizes he never put his phone back together, and he rolls his eyes at his own stupidity. With his phone reassembled, he watches in morbid fascination as the number of texts and voice messages climb higher and higher. It’s like a replay of his return from vacation, before Mycroft sent him to Dartmoor and he realizes how long it’s been since he’s had a proper vacation. God he could really use one.

He takes a few moments to peek through his texts. Several of them are from Mycroft, three from John and one from Sherlock  asking whether he’s home . The rest are from fellow officers, questions about current and previous cases, thankfully nothing that required immediate attention. He shoots off a few responses, assures John that he’s still alive and ignores the ones from Mycroft and Sherlock.  He’s still pissed at Mycroft and he doesn’t even want to know  _why_ Sherlock wanted to know where he was last night.  Shaking his head, he turns his phone off again and throws himself back into work.

A t the end of the day, Molly offers up her couch again and Lestrade gratefully agrees. He repeats the cycle over the next few days before he becomes suspicious of how quiet it is. He finally breaks out the letter from Mycroft, his nerves half excited and half terrified over what the paper contains. He’s not expecting a heartfelt apology and it isn’t one, not quite. Mycroft does, at least, apologize for what occurred between himself and Lady Smallwood, and he asks for another chance.  Lestrade is not quite sure whether he’s willing to gve him one. He was betrayed by his wife one too many times for him to overlook any indiscretions. The fact that he and Mycroft were not yet bonded, and that such indiscretion was committed for queen and country did not, in Lestrade’s eyes, make it okay.

He puts the thought out of his head, choosing instead to focus on the second half of the letter, which is , it turns out, a confession of sorts regarding a third Holmes sibling.  A t this news Lestrade just gives up any hope left for humanity.  Still, for Mycroft to write a confession means there is an immense amount of danger. The thought causes his blood to run cold, and Lestrade increases his efforts to reach John and the Holmes brothers.

It’s worse than he expects. He’s always known the Holmes family is brilliant, but to find out the capabilities of Eurus is frankly  _terrifying._ Someone who could outsmart Sherlock  _and_ Mycroft,  who very nearly killed John Watson? Lestrade will be giving her a wide berth. He rushes to Musgrave, but he makes sure to contact Sherrinford, speaks with Mycroft though he makes sure to keep everything professional. He’s not sure what’s next for them.

He touches base with Sherlock, and the man surprises him.

“Mycroft,” he begins. “Make sure he’s looked after. ...he’s not as strong as he thinks he is.”

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it.” The words slip out before Lestrade has had a chance to process them and, well, he can’t exactly go back on his word now, can he? He’s moved back into the house before Mycroft is back from Sherrinford.

When Mycroft returns home he looks beaten, broken. It’s not a look that Greg is accustomed to seeing on the younger man and it makes something in his chest squeeze painfully. Still, he holds himself back, waits for the other man to notice his presence. When he does, Lestrade watches the emotion dance across his face.

“You came back.” The words are soft, tinged with disbelief as if Mycroft cannot quite believe his eyes.

“I did,” Greg agrees. Mycroft crosses the entryway quickly and practically crumbles into Greg’s grip. There is still quite a lot they have to talk about, but it will wait. They’re both exhausted and Lestrade can only imagine what horror Mycroft’s been through. He guides both of them back to the bedroom and gets them tucked into bed. It’s made rather more difficult by Mycroft’s extreme reluctance to relax his grip on the detective but Greg finally manages it and it isn’t long before Mycroft is passed out. Lestrade watches him for a bit before following him into sleep.

He wakes in the morning to find Mycroft looking at him as if attempting to memorize everything about him. He would find it mildly disconcerting if he had not become immune to Holmes’ stares due to years of exposure. Now he just finds it amusing.

“Something on my face?” he asks, rubbing the palm of one hand against his eye.

“I was wondering if I had fabricated you last night.” Mycroft confesses.

“And what did you determine?” Greg asks, pushing himself into a sitting position.

“That you’re much too solid to be a hallucination.” The taller man reaches out, pulling the detective against him as if to confirm that he is, indeed, flesh and blood.

“I can see why you’re the smart one,” Lestrade murmurs, still only half-awake. He’s teasing, of course, but something seems to have struck a discord as he feels Mycroft’s entire body stiffen. “What?” he asks. “What is it?” Mycroft shakes his head.

“Not now. Let’s have some breakfast first.” He drops a kiss to Lestrade’s head before climbing out of bed and padding to the kitchen. Lestrade is not far behind him and there is an awkward silence as Mycroft prepares a quick breakfast. “Where did you wind up staying?”

The question takes Lestrade by surprise, although he doesn’t know why. The detective is well aware of the fact that Mycroft was dragged into his sister’s twisted game almost immediately following their fight. It’s little wonder that the man was unable to track Lestrade’s whereabouts.

“Wound up kipping on Molly’s couch for a bit,” he informs the other man. “I didn’t want to put John or Sherlock out, didn’t want to pay for a hotel,” he shrugs. After a pause, he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?” He’s surprised when Mycroft actually does talk about it. The detective alternates between intrigued and horrified as Mycroft fills him in about Eurus, first as a child and then as she grew older. He listens as Mycroft recounts what he, Sherlock and John went through at the prison, the choices she forced Sherlock to make, the subsequent arguement with his parents.

“She is, without a doubt, the most dangerous person I know. She has murdered indiscriminately and will do so again if given a chance. I did the only thing I could possibly think of to keep her and the rest of humanity safe and I still feel as if I failed.”

“You did everything you possibly could, Mycroft. The prison director choose not to listen to you. If anyone is to blame it’s him.”

“Perhaps I _am_ limited in -”

“Enough,” Lestrade interrupts. “You have been caring for your sister for decades, doing everything possible to keep her happy, or whatever approximation of ‘happy’ that she might feel. And up until the director’s screw up, you seem to have been quite successful. So I don’t want to hear you regurgitating whatever nonsense your mother or father spewed in a moment of anger.” Lestrade sighs. “Look, caring for a family member with...difficulties is no easy task and there’s no ‘one-size fits all’ way to do it. You are _scarily_ protective of your siblings, Mycroft, going above and beyond in taking care of them. If there was another way to care of Eurus, you’d have done so as soon as possible. Don’t doubt yourself just because your parents are having a conniption.”

“Thank you, Gregory,” Mycroft sighs, closing his eyes. “I will need to go to the office for a bit, there is so much clean up to take care of. But I will be home early this evening.”

“Alright. Don’t push yourself too hard,” he cautions, watching as the taller man strides away. He’s nowhere near his normal, confident stride but he’s less wobbly than he was yesterday and Lestrade considers that a win.

He takes care of cleaning up after breakfast and then parks himself in Mycroft’s office, working on some cold cases. He gets periodic texts from Sally, who’s been tasked with getting statements from John and Sherlock. She pointedly tells him that she’s left John’s house with Sherlock still alive.  He thinks about sending her a congratulatory text but refrains. He doubts she’d appreciate the humor.

T hings begin to settle. Sherlock makes regular trips out to Sherrinford to visit Eurus and while words might not be able to penetrate whatever protective shield the youngest Holmes has wrapped herself in, music seems to reach her. Mycroft plays a clip of a violin duet by the two and while Greg might not know a lot about classical music, even he can agree that the song is beautiful. It’s enough to thaw whatever remaining animosity is left between Mrs. Holmes and her eldest child. Eventually 221B is put back together and Sherlock and John are back in the game.  It is, Lestrade thinks, as close to normal as they will ever get.

“So,” he begins over breakfast. “About our bond...”

End


End file.
